No, Ivan suspected nothing. He merely sat, rigid, silent, white-faced,
tossing aside stub after stub of cigarettes, and gazing, vacantly, into
the spaces of past and future, trying to reconstruct the broken life of
that starving boy whom he once had fed.

The trunk was packed, and locked. Ivan did not look up. Not, indeed,
until a tall woman, in a severely-cut cloth costume, entered the studio
from the inner chamber bearing with her a lighted lamp, did he come back
to himself, and offer to help her into the fur coat that hung over one
arm.

This act of courtesy accomplished, Ivan mechanically held out his hand.
"You are leaving now?"

"Yes."

"I shall wait here for--him. Do you know when he will come?"

"By seven, probably. We usually dine at that hour."

"Thank you.--Good-bye."

"Ivan!"--The word was a strange whisper. Ivan started. When his eyes met
hers, she was looking at him almost steadily. The next instant she had
uttered a hoarse: "Good-bye!" and--was gone.

He returned to his seat, wondering a little about her destination:
surmising, indeed, the costly equipage that awaited her in the street,
with its two men on the box, and its eager occupant.--Faugh! The reverie
was broken by the appearance of a man who came to take away the trunk.
Her plans had been well laid. But--suppose, as she had imagined when he
entered, _he_ had been Joseph, returned early? Well, she had doubtless
carried things off high-handedly more than once. Why should she hesitate
this time?

Heart-sick, Ivan returned to his seat in the lamp-light. Odd that he
should have come hither on this day of crisis! Was it well, or ill, that
this was so? Would Joseph, overwhelmed by his loss, prove
pliable?--Would his weakness be guided by another's reason?--Who could
tell? If strength is always consistent, weakness should be as often
incalculable.

The silent minutes crept along. Ivan, who, in the face of Nicholas'
tale, had eaten little luncheon, began to grow faint for food. Seven
o'clock had already been rung by the myriad bells of Moscow. Joseph did
not come.--The half-hour.--Eight.--Still no Joseph. Well, since he was
here Ivan would wait the night through, if necessary. Another hour. The
watcher's eyelids grew leaden; a great emptiness, a lonely dread, crept
through him. He shivered in the growing chill of the room. At last, a
little before ten, there came the sound of shuffling steps in the hall,
followed by a fumbling at the door, w