en did the other doctor turn and perceive the new-comer. He did
not summon him, however, but hurriedly poured his decoction into a cup
and carried it to the bed. Then followed whispered words, the slow
administration of the draught, and some further performance requiring
the united efforts of the nurse and both doctors. Afterwards, all three
drew away, and Ivan felt himself called. At once he was at the bedside,
gazing down upon the fever-ravaged face, with its stubble of beard and
the shock of white hair beneath which the cavernous eyes glowed and
burned with something of their old fierceness.

"Ivan!" whispered the hoarse and feeble voice.

A rush of pity overwhelmed the son, and, for the moment, to his own
amazement, he could not speak. Instead, he lifted and pressed to his
cheek one of the burning hands. At that moment the nun placed a chair
for him, whispering, adroitly, that strychnine had been given, that in a
few minutes Prince Gregoriev would be much stronger, and that she, with
the doctors, would remain in the antechamber awaiting his summons. Then,
evidently by command, the three left the room, and Ivan was alone with
his dying father.

For thirty-five minutes the hired attendants waited in the anteroom,
before they were called by the white-faced son of their rebellious and
powerful patient. Ivan emerged from the sick-room, motioned the three to
go in, and then himself passed swiftly out and made his way down to his
father's office, whither Piotr the omniscient presently brought a little
_dejeuner_ and a bottle of champagne--of Imperial vintage. Ivan drank
rather eagerly, but touched no food. The revelations of the last,
emotional half-hour had affected him to a point of exhaustion. For,
though no priest of the Orthodox Church had been summoned to the
Gregoriev palace, its master had made his confession--fully, without
reservation,--to his son. All his life lay bare before the mental gaze
of Ivan, who had in his pocket the slip of parchment containing the key
to the cipher of the famous map--that marvellous biographical history of
Russia which must always be a fortune of untold magnitude to its
possessor. For there was many a man in the white empire who would have
offered a million roubles for its destruction on the day of Michael's
death; and there were yet others who would have given double the sum for
its possession;--both of which facts Ivan had surmised. And Ivan knew
also, now, that this treasure was