He found his way to the station, and mingled with the crowd there.
Hours later he was nearly twenty miles from London, and he was alone on a wide heath. Here and there dotted around the outskirts of the heath he saw lights twinkling.
The sky was brighter here; the clouds did not hang so heavily as in the city, while between them he occasionally saw the pale crescent of a waxing moon. All around him was the heath.
He paid no heed to the biting cold, but walked rapidly along one of the straight-cut roads through the heather and bushes. It was now getting late, and no one was to be seen. There were only a few houses in the district, and the inhabitants of these were doubtless ensconced before cosy fires or playing games with their families. It was not a night to be out.
"What a mockery, what a miserable, dirty little mockery life is!" he said aloud as he tramped along. "And what pigmies men are; what paltry, useless things make up their lives! This is Walton Heath, and here I suppose the legislators of the British Empire come to find their amusement in knocking a golf-ball around. And men are applauded because they can knock that ball a little straighter and a little farther than someone else. But—but—and there comes the rub—these same men can think—think right and wrong, do right and wrong. That fellow Faversham—yes; what is it that makes him beat me?"
Mile after mile he tramped, sometimes stopping to look at the sullen, angry-looking clouds that swept across the sky, and again looking around the heath as if trying to locate some object in which he was interested.
Presently he reached a spot where the road cut through some woodland. Dark pine trees waved theirbranches to the skies. In the near distance the heath stretched away for miles, and although it was piercingly cold, the scene was almost attractive. But here it was dark, gloomy, forbidding. For some time he stood looking at the waving pine trees; it might have been that he saw more than was plainly visible.
"What fools, what blind fools men are!" he said aloud. "Their lives are bounded by what they see, and they laugh at the spiritual world; they scorn the suggestion that belting the earth are untold millions of spirits of the dead. Here they are all around me. I can see them. I can see them!"
His eyes burnt red; his features were contorted as if by pain.
"An eternal struggle," he cried—"just an eternal struggle between right and wrong, good and evil—yes, good and evil!
"And the good is slowly gaining the victory! Out of all the wild, mad convulsions of the world, right is slowly emerging triumphant, the savage is being subdued, and the human, the Divine, is triumphing."
He lifted his right hand, and shook his fist to the heavens as if defiantly.
"I had great hopes of the War," he went on. "I saw hell let loose; I saw the world mad for blood. Everywhere was the lust for blood; everywhere men cried, 'Kill! kill!' And now it is over, and wrong is being defeated—defeated!"
He seemed to be in a mad frenzy, his voice shook with rage.
"Dark spirits of hell!" he cried. "You have been beaten, beaten! Why, even in this ghastly war, the Cross has been triumphant! Those thousands, those millions of men who went out from this land, went out for an ideal. They did not understand it, but it was so. They felt dimly and indistinctly that they were fighting, dying, that others might live! And some of the most heroic deeds ever known in the history of the world were done. Men died for others, died for comradeship, died for duty, died for country. Everywhere the Cross was seen!
"And those fellows are not dead! They are alive! they have entered into a greater life!
"Why, even the ghastly tragedy of Russia, on which we built so much, will only be the birth-pains which precede a new life!
"Everywhere, everywhere the right, the good, is emerging triumphant!"
He laughed aloud, a laugh of almost insane mockery.
"But men are blind, blind! They do not realise the world of spirits that is all around them, struggling, struggling. But through the ages the spirits of the good are prevailing!
"That is my punishment, my punishment spirits of hell, my punishment! Day by day I see the final destruction of evil!"
His voice was hoarse with agony. He might have been mad—mad with the torture of despair.
"All around me, all around me they live," he went on. "But I am not powerless. I can still work my will. And Faversham shall be mine. I swore it on the day he was born, swore it when his mother passed into the world of spirits, swore it when his father joined her. What though all creation is moving upwards, I can still drag him down, down into hell! Yes, and she shall see him going down, she shall know, and then she shall suffer as I have suffered. Her very heaven shall be made hell to her, because she shall see her son become even what I have become!"
He left the main road, and followed a disused drive through the wood. Before long he came to a lonely house, almost hidden by the trees. A dark gloomy place it was, dilapidated and desolate. Years before it had perchance been the dwelling-place of some inoffensive respectable householder who loved the quietness of the country. For years it was for sale, and then it was bought by a stranger who never lived in it, but let it fall into decay.
Romanoff found his way to the main entrance of the house, and entered. He ascended a stairway, and at length found his way to a room which was furnished. Here he lit a curiously-shaped lamp. In half an hourthe place was warm, and suggested comfort. Romanoff sat like one deep in thought.
Presently he began to pace the room, uttering strange words as he walked. He might have been repeating incantations, or weaving some mystic charms. Then he turned out the lamp, and only the fire threw a flickering light around the room.
"My vital forces seem to fail me," he muttered; "even here it seems as though there is good."
Perspiration oozed from his forehead, and his face was as pale as death.
Again he uttered wild cries; he might have been summoning unseen powers to his aid.
"They are here!" he shouted, and there was an evil joy in his face. Then there was a change, fear came into his eyes. Looking across the room, he saw two streaks of light in the form of a cross, while out of the silence a voice came.
"Cease!" said the Voice.
Romanoff ceased speaking, and his eyes were fixed on the two streaks of light.
"Who are you? What do you want?" he asked.
"I am here to bid you desist."
"And who are you?"
Slowly, between him and the light, a shadowy figure emerged. Second after second its shape became more clearly outlined, until the form of a woman appeared. But the face was obscure; it was dim and shadowy.
Romanoff's eyes were fixed on the figure; but he uttered no sound. His tongue was dry, and cleaved to the roof of his mouth. His lips were parched.
The face became plainer. Its lineaments were more clearly outlined. He could see waves of light brown hair, eyes that were large and yearning with a great tenderness and pity, yet lit up with joy and holy resolve. A mouth tender as that of a child, but with all the firmness of mature years. A haunting face it was, haunting because of its spiritual beauty, its tenderness, its ineffable joy; and yet it was stern and strong.
It was the face of the woman whom Dick Faversham had seen in the smoke-room of the outward-bound vessel years before, the face that had appeared to him at the doorway of the great house at Wendover.
"You, you!" cried Romanoff at length. "You! Madaline?"
"Yes!"
"Why are you here?"
"To plead with you, to beseech you to let my son alone."
A change came over Romanoff's face as he heard thewords. A new strength seemed to have come to him. Confidence shone in his eyes, his every feature spoke of triumph.
"Your son! His son!" he cried harshly. "The son of the man for whom you cast me into the outer darkness. But for him you might have been the mother ofmyson, and I—I should not have been what I am."
"You are what you are because you have always yielded to the promptings of evil," replied the woman. "That was why I never loved you—never could love you."
"But you looked at me with eyes of love until he came."
"As you know, I was but a child, and when you came with your great name, your great riches, you for a time fascinated me; but I never loved you. I told you so before he came."
"But I loved you," said Romanoff hoarsely. "You, the simple country girl, fascinated me, the Russian noble. And I would have withheld nothing from you. Houses, lands, position, a great name, all—all were yours if you would have been my wife. But you rejected me."
"I did not love you. I felt you were evil. I told you so."
"What of that? I loved you. I swore I would win you. But you—you—a simple country girl, poor, ignorant of the world's ways, resisted me, me—Romanoff. And you married that insipid scholar fellow, leaving me scorned, rejected. And I swore I would be revenged, living or dead. Then your child was born and you died. I could not harm you, you were beyond me, but your son lived. And I swore again. If I could not harm you, I could harm him, I could destroy him. I gave myself over to evil for that. I, too, have passed through the doorway which the world calls death; but powers have been given me, powers to carry out my oath. While his father was alive, I could do nothing, but since then my work has been going forward. And I shall conquer, I shall triumph."
"And I have come here to-night to plead with youon my son's behalf. He has resisted wrong for a long time. Leave him in peace."
"Never," cried Romanoff. "You passed into heaven, but your heaven shall be hell, for your son shall go there. He shall become even as I am. His joy shall be in evil."
"Have you no pity, no mercy?"
"None," replied Romanoff. "Neither pity nor mercy have a place in me. You drove me to hell, and it is my punishment that the only joy which may be mine is the joy of what you call evil."
"Then have pity, have mercy on yourself."
"Pity on myself? Mercy on myself? You talk in black ignorance."
"No, I speak in light. Every evil you do only sinks you deeper in mire, deeper in hell."
"I cannot help that. It is my doom."
"It is not your doom if you repent. If you turn your face, your spirit to the light."
"I cannot repent. I am of those who love evil. I hate mercy. I despise pity."
"Then I must seek to save him in spite of you."
"You cannot," and a laugh of savage triumph accompanied his words. "I have made my plans. Nothing which you can do will save him. He has been given to me."
For a few seconds there was tense unnatural silence. The room was full of strange influences, as though conflicting forces were in opposition, as though light and darkness, good and evil, were struggling together.
"No, no, Madaline," went on Romanoff. "Now is my hour of triumph. The son you love shall be mine."
"Love is stronger than hate, good is stronger than evil," she replied. "You are fighting against the Eternal Spirit of Good; you are fighting against the Supreme Manifestation of that Goodness, which was seen two thousand years ago on the Cross of Calvary."
"The Cross of Calvary!" replied Romanoff, and his voice was hoarse; "it is the symbol of defeat, of degradation, of despair. For two thousand years it has been uplifted, but always to fail."
"Always to conquer," was the calm reply. "Slowlybut surely, age after age, it has been subduing kingdoms, working righteousness, lifting man up to the Eternal Goodness. It has through all the ages been overcoming evil with good, and bringing the harmonies of holiness out of the discord of sin."
"Think of this war!" snarled Romanoff. "Think of Germany, think of Russia! What is the world but a mad hell?"
"Out of it all will Goodness shine. I cannot understand all, for full understanding only belongs to the Supreme Father of Lights. But I am sure of the end. Already the morning is breaking, already light is shining out of the darkness. Men's eyes are being opened, they are seeing visions and dreaming dreams. They are seeing the end of war, and talking of Leagues of Nations, of the Brotherhood of the world."
"But that does not do away with the millions who have died in battle. It does not atone for blighted and ruined homes, and the darkness of the world."
"Not one of those who fell in battle is dead. They are all alive. I have seen them, spoken to them. And the Eternal Goodness is ever with them, ever bearing them up. They have done what they knew to be their duty, and they have entered into their reward."
"What, the Evil and the Good together?" sneered Romanoff. "That were strange justice surely."
"Shall not the Judge of all the Earth do Right? They are all in His care, and His pity and His love are Infinite. That is why I plead with you."
"What, to spare your son? If what you say is true I am powerless. But I am not. Wrong is stronger than right. I defy you."
"Then is it to be a fight between us?"
"If you will. He must be mine."
"And what then?" There was ineffable sorrow in the woman's voice. "Would you drag him into æons of pain and anguish to satisfy your revenge?"
"I would, and I will. What if right is stronger than wrong, as you say? What if in the end right shall drag him through hell to heaven? I shall still know that he has lived in hell, and thus shall I have my revenge."
"And I, who am his mother, am also his ministering angel, and it is my work to save him from you."
"And you are powerless—powerless, I tell you?"
"All power is not given to us, but God has given His angels power to help and save."
"If you have such power, why am I not vanquished?"
"Have you not been vanquished many times?"
"Not once!" cried Romanoff. "Little by little I have been enveloping him in my toils."
"Think," replied the other. "When he was tossing on the angry sea, whose arms bore him up? Think again, why was it when you and he were in the library together at Wendover, and you tempted him to sell his soul for gain;—whose hand was placed on his, and stopped him from signing the paper which would have made him your slave?"
"Was it you?" gasped Romanoff.
"Think again. When the woman you selected sought to dazzle him with wild dreams of power and ambition, and who almost blinded him to the truth, what led him to discard the picture that came to him as inventions of evil? Who helped to open his eyes?"
"Then you—you," gasped Romanoff—"you have been fighting against me all the time! It was you, was it?"
"I was his mother, I am his mother; and I, who never intentionally did you harm, plead with you again. I love him, even as all true mothers, whether on earth or in the land of spirits, love their children. And I am allowed to watch over him, to protect him, to help him. It is my joy to be his guardian angel, and I plead with you to let him be free from your designs."
"And if I will—what reward will you give me?"
"I will seek to help you from your doom—the doom which must be the lot of those who persist in evil."
"That is not enough. No, I will carry out my plans; I will drag him to hell."
"And I, if need be, will descend into hell to save him."
"You cannot, you cannot!" and triumph rang in hisvoice. "I swore to drag him to hell, swore that his soul should be given over to evil."
The woman's face seemed to be drawn with pain, her eyes were filled with infinite yearning and tenderness. She moved her lips as if in speech, but Romanoff could distinguish no words. Then her form grew dimmer and dimmer until there was only a shadowy outline of what had been clear and distinct.
"What do you say? I cannot hear!" and his voice was mocking.
The man continued to look at the place where he had seen her, but, as her form disappeared, the two shafts of light grew more and more luminous. He saw the bright shining Cross distinctly outlined, and his eyes burnt with a great terror. Then out of the silence, out of the wide spaces which surrounded the house, out of the broad expanse of the heavens, words came to him:
"Underneath,underneath,Underneathare the Everlasting Arms."
Fascinated, Romanoff gazed, seeing nothing but the shining outline of the Cross, while the air seemed to pulsate with the great words I have set down.
Then slowly the Cross became more and more dim, until at length it became invisible. The corner of the room which had been illumined by its radiance became full of dark shadows. Silence became profound.
"What does it mean?" he gasped. "She left me foiled, defeated, in despair. But the Cross shone. The words filled everything."
For more than a minute he stood like one transfixed, thinking, thinking.
"It means this," he said presently, and the words came from him in hoarse gasps, "it means that I am to have my way; it means that I shall conquer him—drag him to hell; but that underneath hell are the Everlasting Arms. Well, let it be so. I shall have had my revenge. The son shall suffer what the mother made me suffer, and she shall suffer hell, too, because she shall see her son in hell."
He turned and placed more wood on the fire, thenthrowing himself in an arm-chair he sat for hours, brooding, thinking.
"Yes, Olga will do it," he concluded after a long silence. "The story of the Garden of Eden is an eternal principle. 'The woman tempted me and I did eat,' is the story of the world's sin. He is a man, with all a man's passions, and she is a Venus, a Circe—a woman—and all men fall when a woman tempts."
All through the night he kept his dark vigils; there in the dark house, with only flickering lights from the fire, he worked out his plans, and schemed for the destruction of a man's soul.
In the grey dawn of the wintry morning he was back in London again; but although the servants looked at him questioningly when he entered his hotel, as if wondering where he had been, he told no man of his doings. All his experiences were secret to himself.
During the next few days the little man Polonius seemed exceptionally busy; three times he went to Wendover, where there seemed to be many matters that interested him. Several times he made his way to the War Office, where he appeared to have acquaintances, and where he asked many questions. He also found his way to the block of buildings where Dick Faversham's flat was situated, and although Dick never saw him, he appeared to be greatly interested in the young man's goings out and his comings in. He also went to the House of Commons, and made the acquaintance of many Labour Members. Altogether Polonius's time was much engaged. He went to Count Romanoff's hotel, too, but always late at night, and he had several interviews with that personage, whom he evidently held in great awe.
More than a week after Romanoff's experiences at Walton Heath, Olga Petrovic received a letter which made her very thoughtful. There was a look of fear in her eyes as she read, as though it contained disturbing news.
And yet it appeared commonplace and innocent enough, and it contained only a few lines. Perhaps it was the signature which caused her cheeks to blanch, and her lips to quiver.
This was how it ran:
"Dear Olga,—You must get F. to take you to dinner on Friday night next. You must go to the Moscow Restaurant, and be there by 7.45 prompt. Please look your handsomest, and spare no pains to be agreeable. When the waiter brings you liqueurs be especially fascinating. Act on the Berlin plan. This is very important, as a danger has arisen which I had not calculated upon. The time for action has now come, and I need not remind you how much success means to you."Romanoff."P.S.—Destroy this as you have destroyed all other correspondence from me. I shall know whether this is done.—R."
"Dear Olga,—You must get F. to take you to dinner on Friday night next. You must go to the Moscow Restaurant, and be there by 7.45 prompt. Please look your handsomest, and spare no pains to be agreeable. When the waiter brings you liqueurs be especially fascinating. Act on the Berlin plan. This is very important, as a danger has arisen which I had not calculated upon. The time for action has now come, and I need not remind you how much success means to you.
"Romanoff.
"P.S.—Destroy this as you have destroyed all other correspondence from me. I shall know whether this is done.—R."
This was the note which had caused Olga Petrovic's cheeks to pale. After reading it again, she sat thinking for a long time, while more than once her face was drawn as if by spasms of pain.
Presently she went to her desk, and taking some scented notepaper, she wrote a letter. She was evidently very particular about the wording, for she tore up several sheets before she had satisfied herself. There was the look of an evil woman in her eyes as she sealed it, but there was something else, too; there was an expression of indescribable longing.
The next afternoon Dick Faversham came to her flat and found Olga Petrovic alone. He had come in answer to her letter.
"Have I done anything to offend you, Mr. Faversham?" she asked, as she poured out tea.
"Offend me, Countess? I never thought of such a thing. Why do you ask?"
"You were so cold, so distant when you were here last—and that was several days ago."
"I have been very busy," replied Dick.
"While I have been very lonely."
"Lonely! You lonely, Countess?"
"Yes, very lonely. How little men know women. Because a number of silly, chattering people have beenhere when you have called, you have imagined that my life has been full of pleasure, that I have been content. But I haven't a friend in the world, unless——" She lifted her great languishing eyes to his for a moment, and sighed.
"Unless what?" asked Dick.
"Nothing, nothing. Why should you care about the loneliness of a woman?"
"I care a great deal," replied Dick. "You have been very kind to me—a lonely man."
From that moment she became very charming. His words gave her the opening she sought, and a few minutes later she had led him to the channel of conversation which she desired.
"You do not mind?" she said presently. "I know you are the kind of man who finds it a bore to take a woman out to dinner. But there will be a wonderful band at The Moscow, and I love music."
"It will be a pleasure, a very great pleasure," replied Dick.
"And you will not miss being away from the House of Commons for a few hours, will you? I will try to be very nice."
"As though you needed to try," cried Dick. "As though you could be anything else."
She looked half coyly, half boldly into his eyes.
"To-morrow night then?" she said.
"Yes, to-morrow night. At half-past seven I will be here."
During the few days which had preceded Dick's visit to the Countess Olga's house, he had been very depressed. The excitement which he had at first felt in going to the House of Commons as the Member for Eastroyd had gone. He found, too, that the "Mother of Parliaments" was different from what he had expected.
The thing that impressed him most was the difficulty in getting anything done. The atmosphere of the place was in the main lethargic. Men came there for the first time, enthusiastic and buoyant, determined to do great things; but weeks, months, years passed by, and they had done nothing. In their constituencies crowds flocked to hear them, and applauded them to the echo; but in the House of Commons they had to speak to empty benches, and the few who remained to hear them, yawned while they were speaking, and only waited because they wanted to catch the Speaker's eye.
Dick had felt all this, and much more. It seemed to him that as a legislator he was a failure, and that the House of Commons was the most disappointing place in the world. Added to this he was heart-sore and despondent. His love for Beatrice Stanmore was hopeless. News of her engagement to Sir George Weston had been confirmed, and thus joy had gone out of his life.
Why it was, Dick did not know; but he knew now that he had loved Beatrice Stanmore from the first time he had seen her. He was constantly recalling the hour when she first came into his life. She and her grandfather had come to Wendover when he was sitting talking, with Romanoff, and he remembered how the atmosphere of the room changed the moment she entered. His will-powerwas being sapped, his sense of right and wrong was dulled; yet no sooner did she appear than his will-power came back, his moral perceptions became keen.
It was the same at her second visit. He had been like a man under a spell; he had become almost paralysed by Romanoff's philosophy of life, helpless to withstand the picture he held before his eyes; yet on the sudden coming of this bright-eyed girl everything had changed. She made him live in a new world. He remembered going outside with her, and they had talked about angels.
How vivid it all was to him! Everything was sweeter, brighter, purer, because of her. Her simple, childish faith, her keen intuition had made his materialism seem so much foolishness. Her eyes pierced the dark clouds; she was an angel of God, pointing upward.
He knew the meaning of it now. His soul had found a kindred soul, even although he had not known it; he had loved her then, although he was unaware of the fact. But ever since he had learnt the secret of his heart he had understood.
But it was too late. He was helpless, hopeless. She had given her heart to this soldier, this man of riches and position. Oh, what a mockery life was! He had seen the gates of heaven, he had caught a glimpse of what lay beyond, but he could not enter, and in his disappointment and hopelessness, despair gnawed at his heart like a canker.
Thus Dick Faversham was in a dangerous mood. That was why the siren-like presence of Olga Petrovic acted upon his senses like an evil charm. Oh, if he had only known!
At half-past seven on the Friday night he called at her flat, and he had barely entered the room before she came to him. Evidently she regarded it as a great occasion, for she was resplendently attired. Yet not too much so. Either she, or her maid, instinctively knew what exactly suited her kind of beauty; for not even the most critical could have found fault with her.
What a glorious creature she was! Shaped like a goddess, her clothes accentuated her charms. Evidently, too, she was intent on pleasing him. Her face waswreathed in smiles, her eyes shone with dangerous brightness. There was witchery, allurement in her presence—she was a siren.
Dick almost gave a gasp as he saw her. A girl in appearance, a girl with all the winsomeness and attractiveness of youth, yet a woman with all a woman's knowledge of man's weakness—a woman bent on being captivating.
"Do I please your Majesty?" and her eyes flashed as the words passed her lips.
"Please me!" he gasped. "You are wonderful, simply wonderful."
"I want you to be pleased," she whispered, and Dick thought he saw her blush.
They entered the motor-car together, and as she sat by his side he felt as though he were in dreamland. A delicate perfume filled the air, and the knowledge that he was going to dine with her, amidst brightness and gaiety, made him forgetful of all else.
They were not long in reaching The Moscow, one of the most popular and fashionable restaurants in London. He saw at a glance, as he looked around him, that the wealth, the beauty, the fashion of London were there. The waiter led them to a table from which they could command practically the whole room, and where they could be seen by all. But he took no notice of this. He was almost intoxicated by the brilliance of the scene, by the fascination of the woman who sat near him.
"For once," she said, "let us forget dull care, let us be happy."
He laughed gaily. "Why not?" he cried. "All the same, I wonder what my constituents at Eastroyd would say if they saw me here?"
She gave a slight shrug, and threw off the light gossamer shawl which had somewhat hidden her neck and shoulders. Her jewels flashed back the light which shone overhead, her eyes sparkled like stars.
"Let us forget Eastroyd," she cried; "let us forget everything sordid and sorrowing. Surely there are times when one should live only for gladness, for joy. Is not the music divine? There, listen! Did I not tell you that some of the most wonderful artists in Londonplay here? Do you know what it makes me think of?"
"I would love to know," he responded, yielding to her humour.
"But I must not tell you—I dare not. I am going to ask a favour of you, my friend. Will you grant it, without asking me what it is?"
"Of course I will grant it."
"Oh, it is little, nothing after all. Only let me choose the wine to-night."
"Why not? I am no wine drinker, and am no judge of vintages."
"Ah, but you must drink with me to-night. To-night I am queen, and you are——"
"Yes, what am I?" asked Dick with a laugh, as she stopped.
"You are willing to obey your queen, aren't you?"
"Who would not be willing to obey such a queen?" was his reply.
The waiter hovered around them, attending to their slightest wants. Not only was the restaurant noted as being a rendezvous for the beauty and fashion of London, but it boasted the bestchefin England. Every dish was more exquisite than the last, and everything was served in a way to please the most captious.
The dinner proceeded. Course followed course, while sweet music was discoursed, and Dick felt in a land of enchantment. For once he gave himself over to enjoyment—he banished all saddening thoughts. He was in a world of brightness and song; every sight, every sound drove away dull care. To-morrow he would have to go back to the grim realities of life; but now he allowed himself to be swept along by the tide of laughter and gaiety.
"You seem happy, my friend," said the woman presently. "Never before did I see you so free from dull care, never did I see you so full of the joy of life. Well, why not? Life was given to us to be happy. Yes, yes, I know. You have your work to do; but not now. I should feel miserable for days if I thought I could not charm away sadness from you—especially to-night."
"Why to-night?"
"Because it is the first time we have ever dined together. I should pay you a poor compliment, shouldn't I, if when you took me to a place where laughter abounded I did not bring laughter to your lips and joy to your heart. Let us hope that this is the first of the many times we may dine together. Yes; what are you thinking about?"
"That you are a witch, a wonder, a miracle of beauty and of charm. There, I know I speak too freely."
He ceased speaking suddenly.
"I love to hear you speak so. I would rather—but what is the matter?"
Dick did not reply. His eyes were riveted on another part of the room, and he had forgotten that she was speaking. Seated at a table not far away were three people, two men and a woman. The men were Sir George Weston and Hugh Stanmore. The woman was Beatrice Stanmore. Evidently the lover had brought his fiancée and her grandfather there that night. It seemed to Dick that Weston had an air of proprietorship, as he acted the part of host. He watched while the baronet smiled on her and spoke to her. It would seem, too, that he said something pleasant, for the girl laughed gaily, and her eyes sparkled with delight.
"You see someone you know?" and Olga Petrovic's eyes followed his gaze. "Ah, you are looking at the table where that pretty but rather countrified girl is sitting with the old man with the white hair, and the other who looks like a soldier. Ah yes, you know them, my friend?"
"I have seen them—met them," he stammered.
"Ah, then you know who they are? I do not know them, they are strangers to me; but I can tell you about them. Shall I?"
"Yes." His eyes were still riveted on them, and he did not know he had spoken.
"The girl is the younger man's fiancée. They have lately become engaged. Don't you see how he smiles on her? And look how she smiles back. She is deeply in love with him, that is plain. There, don't you see—shehas a ring on her engagement finger. They are very happy. I think the man has brought the girl and the old man here as a kind of celebration dinner. Presently they will go to some place of amusement. She seems a poor simpering thing; but they are evidently deeply in love with each other. Tell me, am I not right?"
Dick did not reply. What he had seen stung him into a kind of madness. He was filled with reckless despair. What matter what he did, what happened to him? Of course he knew of the engagement, but the sight of them together unhinged his mind, kept him from thinking coherently.
"You seem much interested in them, my friend; do you know them well? Ah, they have finished dinner, I think. There, they are looking at us; the girl is asking who we are, or, perhaps, she has recognised you."
For a moment Dick felt his heart stop beating; yes, she was coming his way. She must pass his table in order to get out.
With a kind of despairing recklessness he seized the wineglass by his side and drained it. He was hardly master of himself; he talked rapidly, loudly.
The waiter appeared with liqueurs.
"Yes," cried the Countess, with a laugh; "I chose the wine—I must choose the liqueurs also. It is my privilege."
The waiter poured out the spirits with a deft hand, while the woman laughed. Her eyes sparkled more brightly then ever; her face had a look of set purpose.
"This is the only place in London where one can get this liqueur," she cried. "What is it? I don't know. But I am told it is exquisite. There! I drink to you!"
She lifted the tiny glass to her lips, while her eyes, large, black, bold, seductive, dangerous, flashed into his.
"Drink, my friend," she said, and her voice reached some distance around her; "it is the drink of love, oflove, the only thing worth living for. Drain it to the bottom, and let us be happy."
He lifted the glass, but ere it reached his lips he saw that Beatrice Stanmore and her companions were close to him, and that she must have heard what Olga Petrovichad said. In spite of the fact that he had drunk of rich, strong wine, and that it tingled through his veins like some fabled elixir, he felt his heart grow cold. He saw a look on the girl's face which startled him—frightened him. But she was not looking at him; her eyes were fixed on his companion.
And he saw the expression of terror, of loathing, of horror. It made him think of an angel gazing into the pit of hell. But Olga Petrovic seemed unconscious of her presence. Her eyes were fixed on Dick's face. She seemed to be pleading with him, fascinating him, compelling him to think only of her.
Meanwhile Hugh Stanmore and Sir George Weston hesitated, as if doubtful whether they should speak.
Dick half rose. He wanted to speak to Beatrice. To tell her—what, he did not know. But he was not master of himself. He was dizzy and bewildered. Perhaps it was because he was unaccustomed to drink wine, and the rich vintage had flown to his head—perhaps because of influences which he could not understand.
"Beatrice—Miss Stanmore," he stammered in a hoarse, unnatural voice, so hoarse and unnatural that the words were scarcely articulated, "this—thisisa surprise."
He felt how inane he was. He might have been intoxicated. What must Beatrice think of him?
But still she did not look at him. Her eyes were still fixed on Olga's face. She seemed to be trying to read her, to pierce her very soul. Then suddenly she turned towards Dick, who had dropped into his chair again, and was still holding the tiny glass in his hand.
"You do not drink, Dick," said Olga Petrovic, and her voice, though low and caressing, was plainly to be heard. "You must drink, because I chose it, and it is the drink of love—the only thing worth living for," and all the time her eyes were fixed on his face.
Almost unconsciously he turned towards her, and his blood seemed turned to fire. Madness possessed him; he felt a slave to the charms of this bewitching woman, even while the maiden for whom his heart longed with an unutterable longing was only two or three yards fromhim. He lifted the glass again, and the fiery liquid passed his lips.
Again he looked at Beatrice, and it seemed to him that he saw horror and disgust in her face. Something terrible had happened; it seemed to him that he was enveloped in some form of black magic from which he could not escape.
Then rage filled his heart. The party passed on without further notice of him, and he saw Beatrice speak to Sir George Weston. What she said to him he did not know, but he caught a part of his reply.
"I heard of her in Vienna. She had a curious reputation. Hersalonwas the centre of attraction to a peculiar class of men. Magnificent, but——"
That was all he heard. He was not sure he heard even that. There was a hum of voices, and the sound of laughter everywhere, and so it was difficult for him to be sure of what any particular person said. Neither might the words apply to the woman at his side.
Bewildered, he turned towards Olga again, caught the flash of her eyes' wild fire, and was again fascinated by the bewildering seductiveness of her charms. What was the matter with him? He did not seem master of himself. Everything was strange—bewildering.
Perhaps it was because of the wine he had drunk, perhaps because that fiery liquid had inflamed his imagination; but it seemed to him that nothing mattered. Right! Wrong! What were they? Mere abstractions, the fancies of a diseased mind. Wild recklessness filled his heart. He had seen Beatrice Stanmore smile on Sir George Weston, and he had heard the woman at his side say that she, Beatrice, wore this Devonshire squire's ring.
Well, what then? Why should he care?
And all the time Olga Petrovic was by his side. She had seemed unconscious of Beatrice's presence; she had not noticed the look of horror and loathing in the girl's eyes. She was only casting a spell on him—a spell he could not understand.
Then he had a peculiar sensation. This mysterious woman was bewitching him. She was sapping his willeven as Romanoff had sapped it years before. Why did he connect them?
"Countess," he said, "do you know Count Romanoff?"
The woman hesitated a second before replying.
"Dick," she said, "you must not call me Countess. You know my name, don't you? Count Romanoff? No, I never heard of him."
"Let us get away from here," he cried. "I feel as though I can't breathe."
"I'm so sorry. Let us go back home and spend the evening quietly. Oh, I forgot. Sir Felix and Lady Fordham are calling at ten o'clock. You don't mind, do you?"
"No, no. I shall be glad to meet them."
A few minutes later they were moving rapidly towards Olga Petrovic's flat, Dick still excited, and almost irresponsible, the woman with a look of exultant triumph on her face.
"Sit down, my friend. Sir Felix and Lady Fordham have not come; but what matter? There, take this chair. Ah, you look like yourself again. Has it ever struck you that you are a handsome man? No; I do not flatter. I looked around The Moscow to-night, and there was not a man in the room to compare with you—not one who looked so distinguished, so much—a man. I felt so glad—so proud."
He felt himself sink in the luxuriously upholstered chair, while she sat at his feet and looked up into his face.
"Now, then, you are king; you are seated on your throne, while I, your slave, am at your feet, ready to obey your will. Is not that the story of man and woman?"
He did not answer He was struggling, struggling and fighting, and yet he did not know against what he was fighting. Besides, he had no heart in the battle. His will-power was gone; his vitality was lowered; he felt as though some powerful narcotic were in his blood, deadening his manhood, dulling all moral purpose. He was intoxicated by the influences of the hour, careless as to what might happen to him, and yet by some strange contradiction he was afraid. The shadow of a great terror rested on him.
And Olga Petrovic seemed to know—to understand.
She started to her feet. "You have never heard me sing, have you? Ah no, of course you have not. And has it not ever been in song and story that the slave of her lord's will discoursed sweet music to him? Is there not some old story about a shepherd boy who charmed away the evil spirits of the king by music?"
She sat at a piano, and began to play soft, dreamymusic. Her fingers scarcely touched the keys, and yet the room was filled with peculiar harmonies.
"You understand French, do you not, my friend? Yes; I know you do."
She began to sing. What the words were he never remembered afterwards, but he knew they possessed a strange power over him. They dulled his fears; they charmed his senses; they seemed to open up long vistas of beauty and delight. He seemed to be in a kind of Mohammedan Paradise, where all was sunshine and song.
How long she sung he could not tell; what she said to him he hardly knew. He only knew that he sat in a luxuriously appointed room, while this wonder of womanhood charmed him.
Presently he knew that she was making love to him, and that he was listening with eager ears. Not only did he seem to have no power to resist her—he had no desire to do so. He did not ask whether she was good or evil; he ceased to care what the future might bring forth. And yet he had a kind of feeling that something was wrong, hellish—only it did not matter to him. This woman loved him, while all other love was impossible to him.
Beatrice! Ah, but Beatrice had looked at him with horror; all her smiles were given to another man—the man to whom she had promised to give herself as his wife. What mattered, then?
But there was a new influence in the room! It seemed to him as if a breath of sweet mountain air had been wafted to him—air full of the strength of life, sweet, pure life. The scales fell from his eyes and he saw.
The woman again sat at his feet, looking up at him with love-compelling eyes, and he saw her plainly. But he saw more: the wrappings were torn from her soul, and he beheld her naked spirit.
He shuddered. What he saw was evil—evil. Instead of the glorious face of Olga Petrovic, he saw a grinning skull; instead of the dulcet tones of her siren-like voice, he heard the hiss of snakes, the croaking of a raven.
He was standing on the brink of a horrible precipice,while beneath him was black, unfathomable darkness, filled with strange, noisome sounds.
What did it mean? He still beheld the beauty—the somewhat Oriental beauty of the room; he was still aware of the delicate odours that pervaded it, while this woman, glorious in her queenly splendour, was at his feet, charming him with words of love, with promises of delight; but it seemed to him that other eyes, other powers of vision, were given to him, and he saw beyond.
Was that Romanoff's cynical, evil face? Were not his eyes watching them with devilish expectancy? Was he not even then gloating over the loss of his manhood, the pollution of his soul?
"Hark, what is that?"
"What, my friend? Nothing, nothing."
"But I heard something—something far away."
She laughed with apparent gaiety, yet there was uneasiness in her voice.
"You heard nothing but my foolish confession, Dick. I love you, love you! Do you hear? I love you. I tried to kill it—in vain. But what matter? Love is everything—there is nothing else to live for. And you and I are all the world. Your love is mine. Tell me, is it not so? And I am yours, my beloved, yours for ever."
But he only half heard her; forces were at work in his life which he could not comprehend. A new longing came to him—the longing for a strong, clean manhood.
"Do you believe in angels?" he asked suddenly.
Why the question passed his lips he did not know, but it sprung to his lips without thought or effort on his part. Then he remembered. Beatrice Stanmore had asked him that question weeks before down at Wendover Park.
Angels! His mind became preternaturally awake; his memory flashed back across the chasm of years.
"Are they not all ministering spirits, sent forth to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation?"
Yes; he remembered the words. The old clergyman had repeated them years before, when he had seen the face of the woman which no other man could see.
Like lightning his mind swept down the years, and he remembered the wonderful experiences which had had such a marked influence on his life.
"Angels!" laughed the woman. "There are no angels save those on earth, my friend. There is no life other than this, so let us be happy."
"Look, look!" he cried, pointing to a part of the room which was only dimly lit. "She is there, there! Don't you see? Her hand is pointing upward!"
Slowly the vision faded, and he saw nothing.
Then came the great temptation of Dick Faversham's life. His will-power, his manhood, had come back to him again, but he felt that he had to fight his battle alone. His eyes were open, but because at his heart was a gnawing despair, he believed there was nothing to live for save what his temptress promised.
She pleaded as only a woman jealous for her love, determined to triumph, can plead. And she was beautiful, passionate, dangerous. Again he felt his strength leaving him, his will-power being sapped, his horror of wrong dulled.
Still something struggled within him—something holy urged him to fight on. His manhood was precious; the spark of the Divine fire which still burnt refused to be extinguished.
"Lord, have mercy upon me! Christ, have mercy upon me!"
It was a part of the service he had so often repeated in the old school chapel, and it came back to him like the memory of a dream.
"Countess," he said, "I must go."
"No, no, Dick," cried the woman, with a laugh. "Why, it is scarcely ten o'clock."
"I must go," he repeated weakly.
"Not for another half an hour. I am so lonely."
He was hesitating whether he should stay, when they both heard the sound of voices outside—voices that might have been angry. A moment later the door opened, and Beatrice Stanmore came in, accompanied by her grandfather.
"Forgive me," panted the girl, "but I could not helpcoming. Something told me you were in great danger—ill—dying, and I have come."
She had come to him just as she had come to him that night at Wendover Park, and at her coming the power of Romanoff was gone. It was the same now. As if by magic, he felt free from the charm of Olga Petrovic. The woman was evil, and he hated evil.
Again the eyes of Beatrice Stanmore were fixed on the face of Olga Petrovic. She did not speak, but her look was expressive of a great loathing.
"Surely this is a strange manner to disturb one's privacy," said the Countess. "I am at a loss to know to what I am indebted for this peculiar attention. I must speak to my servants."
But Beatrice spoke no word in reply to her. Turning towards Dick again, she looked at him for a few seconds.
"I am sorry I have disturbed you," she said. "Something, I do not know what, told me you were in some terrible danger, and I went back to the restaurant. A man there told us you had come here. I am glad I was mistaken. Forgive me, I will go now."
"I am thankful you came," said Dick. "I—I am going."
"Good-night, Countess," he added, turning to Olga, and without another word turned to leave the room. But Olga Petrovic was not in the humour to be baffled. She rushed towards him and caught his arm.
"You cannot go yet," she cried. "You must not go like this, Dick; I cannot allow you. Besides, I want an explanation. These people, who are they? Dick, why are they here?"
"I must go," replied Dick sullenly. "I have work to do."
"Work!" she cried. "This is not the time for work, but love—our love, Dick. Ah, I remember now. This girl was at The Moscow with that soldier man. They love each other. Why may we not love each other too? Stay, Dick."
But she pleaded in vain. The power of her spell had gone. Something strong, virile, vital, stirred within him, and he was master of himself.
"Good-night, Countess," he replied. "Thank you for your kind invitation, but I must go."
He scarcely knew where he was going, and he had only a dim remembrance of refusing to take the lift and of stumbling down the stairs. He thought he heard old Hugh Stanmore talking with Beatrice, but he was not sure; he fancied, too, that they were close behind him, but he was too bewildered to be certain of anything.
A few minutes later he was tramping towards his own humble flat, and as he walked he was trying to understand the meaning of what had taken place.
Olga Petrovic had been alone only a few seconds, when Count Romanoff entered the room. Evidently he had been in close proximity all the time. In his eyes was the look of an angry beast at bay; his face was distorted, his voice hoarse.
"And you have allowed yourself to be beaten—beaten!" he taunted.
But the woman did not speak. Her hands were clenched, her lips tremulous, while in her eyes was a look of unutterable sorrow.
"But we have not come to the end of our little comedy yet, Olga," went on Romanoff. "You have still your chance of victory."
"Comedy!" she repeated; "it is the blackest tragedy."
"Tragedy, eh? Yes; it will be tragedy if you fail."
"And I must fail," she cried. "I am powerless to reach him, and yet I would give my heart's blood to win his love. But go, go! Let me never see your face again."
"You will not get rid of me so easily," mocked the Count. "We made our pact. I will keep my side of it, and you must keep yours."
"I cannot, I tell you. Something, something I cannot understand, mocks me."
"You love the fellow still," said Romanoff. "Fancy, Olga Petrovic is weak enough for that."
"Yes, I love him," cried the woman—"I admit it—lovehim with every fibre of my being. But not as you would have me love him. I have tried to obey you; but I am baffled. The man's clean, healthy soul makes me ashamed. God alone knows how ashamed I am! And it is his healthiness of soul that baffles me."
"No, it is not," snarled Romanoff. "It is because I have been opposed by one of whom I was ignorant. That chit of a girl, that wayside flower, whom I would love to see polluted by the filth of the world, has been used to beat me. Don't you see? The fellow is in love with her. He has been made to love her. That is why you have failed."
Mad jealousy flashed into the woman's eyes. "He loves her?" she asked, and her voice was hoarse.
"Of course he does. Will you let him have her?"
"He cannot. Is she not betrothed to that soldier fellow?"
"What if she is? Was there not love in her eyes as she came here to-night? Would she have come merely for Platonic friendship? Olga, if you do not act quickly, you will have lost him—lost him for ever."
"But I have lost him!" she almost wailed.
"You have not, I tell you. Go to her to-night. Tell her that Faversham is not the man she thinks he is. Tell her—but I need not instruct you as to that. You know what to say. Then when he goes to her to explain, as he will go, she will drive him from her, Puritan fool as she is, with loathing and scorn! After that your turn will come again."
For some time they talked, she protesting, he explaining, threatening, cajoling, promising, and at length he overcame. With a look of determination in her eyes, she left her flat, and drove to the hotel where Romanoff told her that Hugh Stanmore and Beatrice were staying.
Was Miss Beatrice Stanmore in the hotel? she asked when she entered the vestibule.
Yes, she was informed, Miss Stanmore had returned with her grandfather only half an hour before.
She took one of her visiting cards and wrote on it hastily.
"Will you take it to her at once," she commandedthe servant, and she handed him the card. "Tell her that it is extremely urgent."
"But it is late, your ladyship," protested the man; "and I expect she has retired."
Nevertheless he went. A look from the woman compelled obedience. A few minutes later he returned.
"Will you be pleased to follow me, your ladyship?" he said. "Miss Stanmore will see you."
Olga Petrovic followed him with a steady step, but in her eyes was a look of fear.
Beatrice Stanmore was sitting in a tiny room as the Countess Olga Petrovic entered. It was little more than a dressing-room, and adjoined her bedroom. She rose at Olga's entrance, and looked at the woman intently. She was perfectly calm, and was far more at ease than her visitor.
"I hope you will pardon the liberty I have taken," and Olga spoke in sweet, low tones; "but I came to plead for your forgiveness. I was unutterably rude to you to-night, and I felt I could not sleep until I was assured of your pardon."
"Won't you sit down?" and Beatrice pointed to a chair as she spoke. "I will ask my grandfather to come here."
"But, pardon me," cried Olga eagerly, "could we not remain alone? I have much to say to you—things which I can say to you only."
"Then it was not simply to ask my pardon that you came?" retorted Beatrice. "Very well, I will hear you."
She was utterly different from the sensitive, almost timid girl whom Dick Faversham had spoken to at Wendover. It was evident that she had no fear of her visitor. She spoke in plain matter-of-fact terms.
For a few seconds the older woman seemed to be at a loss what to say. The young inexperienced girl disturbed her confidence, her self-assurance.
"I came to speak to you about Mr. Faversham," she began, after an awkward silence.
Beatrice Stanmore made no remark, but sat quietly as if waiting for her to continue.
"You know Mr. Faversham?" continued the woman.
"Yes, I know him."
"Forgive me for speaking so plainly; but you have an interest in him which is more than—ordinary?" The words were half a question, half an assertion.
"I am greatly interested in Mr. Faversham—yes," she replied quietly.
"Even though, acting on the advice of your grandfather, you have become engaged to Sir George Weston? Forgive my speaking plainly, but I felt I must come to you to-night, felt I must tell you the truth."
Olga Petrovic paused as if waiting for Beatrice to say something, but the girl was silent. She fixed her eyes steadily on the other's face, and waited.
"Mr. Faversham is not the kind of man you think he is." Olga Petrovic spoke hurriedly and awkwardly, as though she found the words difficult to say.
Still Beatrice remained silent; but she kept her eyes steadily on the other's face.
"I thought I ought to tell you. You are young and innocent; you do not know the ways of men. Mr. Faversham is not fit for you to associate with."
"And yet you dined with him to-night. You took him to your flat afterwards."
"But I am different from you. I am a woman of the world, and your Puritan standard of morals has no weight or authority with me. Of course," and again she spoke awkwardly, "I have no right to speak to you, your world is different from mine, and you are a stranger to me; but I have heard of you."
"How? Through whom?"
"Need you ask?"
"I suppose you mean Mr. Faversham. Why should he speak to you about me?"
"Some men are like that. They boast of their conquests, they glory in—in——; but I need not say more. Will you take advice from a woman who—who has suffered, and who, through suffering, has learnt to know the world? It is this. Think no more of Richard Faversham. He—he is not a good man; he is not fit to associate with a pure child like you."
Beatrice Stanmore looked at the other with wonder in her eyes. There was more than wonder, there was terror. It might be that the older woman had frightened her.
"Forgive me speaking like this," went on Olga, "but I cannot help myself. Drive him from your mind. Perhaps there is not much romance in the thought of marrying Sir George Weston, but I beseech you to do so. He, at least, will shield you from the temptations, the evil of the world. As for Faversham, if he ever tries to see you again, remember that his very presence is pollution for such as you. Yes, yes, I know what you are thinking of—but I don't matter. I live in a world of which I hope you may always remain ignorant; but in which Faversham finds his joy. You—you saw us together——"
In spite of her self-control Beatrice was much moved. The crimson flushes on her cheeks were followed by deathly pallor. Her lips quivered, her bosom heaved as if she found it difficult to breathe. But she did not speak. Perhaps she was too horrified by the other's words.
"I know I have taken a fearful liberty with you," went on Olga; "but I could not help myself. My life, whatever else it has done has made me quick to understand, and when I watched you, I saw that that man had cast an evil spell upon you. At first I felt careless, but as I watched your face, I felt a great pity for you. I shuddered at the thought of your life being blackened by your knowledge of such a man."
"Does he profess love to you?" asked Beatrice quietly.
Olga Petrovic gave a hard laugh. "Surely you saw," she said.
"And you would warn me against him?"
"Yes; I would save you from misery."
For some seconds the girl looked at the woman's face steadily, then she said, simply and quietly:
"And are you, who seek to save me, content to be the woman you say you are? You are very, very beautiful—are you content to be evil?"
She spoke just as a child might speak; but there wassomething in the tones of her voice which caused the other to be afraid.
"You seem to have a kind heart," went on Beatrice; "you would save me from pain, and—and evil. Have you no thought for yourself?"
"I do not matter," replied the woman sullenly.
"You think only of me?"
"I think only of you."
"Then look at me," and the eyes of the two met. "Is what you have told me true?"
"True!"
"Yes, true. You were innocent once, you had a mother who loved you, and I suppose you once had a religion. Will you tell me, thinking of the mother who loved you, of Christ who died for you, whether what you say about Mr. Faversham is true?"
A change came over Olga Petrovic's face; her eyes were wide open with terror and shame. For some seconds she seemed fighting with a great temptation, then she rose to her feet.
"No," she almost gasped; "it is not true!" She simply could not persist in a lie while the pure, lustrous eyes of the girl were upon her.
"Then why did you tell me?"
"Because, oh, because I am mad! Because I am a slave, and because I am jealous, jealous for his love, because, oh——!" She flung herself into the chair again, and burst into an agony of tears.
"Oh, forgive me, forgive me for deceiving you!" she sobbed presently.
"You did not deceive me at all. I knew you were lying."
"But—but you seemed—horrified at what I told you!"
"I was horrified to think that one so young and beautiful like you could—could sink so low."
"Then you do not know what love is!" she cried. "Do you understand? I love him—love him! I would do anything, anything to win him."
"And if you did, could you make him happy?"
"I make him happy! Oh, but you do not know."
"Tell me," said Beatrice, "are you not the tool, the slave of someone else? Has not Mr. Faversham an enemy, and are you not working for that enemy?"
Her clear, childlike eyes were fixed on the other's face; she seemed trying to understand her real motives. Olga Petrovic, on the other hand, regarded the look with horror.
"No, no," she cried, "do not think that of me! I would have saved Dick from him. I—I would have shielded him with my life."
"You would have shielded him from Count Romanoff?"
"Do not tell me you know him?"
"I only know of him. He is evil, evil. Ah yes, I understand now. He sent you here. He is waiting for you now."
"But how do you know?"
"Listen," said Beatrice, without heeding her question, "you can be a happy woman, a good woman. Go back and tell that man that you have failed, and that he has failed; then go back to your own country, and be the woman God meant you to be, the woman your mother prayed you might be."
"I—I a happy woman—a good woman!"
"Yes—I tell you, yes."
"Oh, tell me so again, tell me—O great God, help me!"
"Sit down," said Beatrice quietly; "let us talk. I want to help you."
For a long time they sat and talked, while old Hugh Stanmore, who was close by, wondered who his grandchild's visitor could be, and why they talked so long.
It was after midnight when Olga Petrovic returned to her flat, and no sooner did she enter than Count Romanoff met her.
"Well, Olga," he asked eagerly, "what news?"
"I go back to Poland to-morrow, to my old home, to my own people."
She spoke slowly, deliberately; her voice was hard and cold.
He did not seem to understand. He looked at her questioningly for some seconds without speaking.
"You are mad, Olga," he said presently.
"I am not mad."