Velasco took from his pocket a twist of paper blotted, and studied it, with his head in his hands. 

 "Will you help me—life or death—tonight? Kaya." 

 He listened again. 

 The theme was still running, the black notes dancing; but between them intertwined was a face, upturned, exquisite, the eyes pleading, the lips parted, hands clasped and beckoning. That night at the Mariínski—ah! 

 He had searched for her everywhere. Ushers had flown from loggia to loggia, ransacking the Theatre. Next to the Imperial Box, or was it the second? To the right?—no, the left! Below, or perhaps on the Bel-Etage?—All in vain. Was it only a dream? He stared down at the twist of paper blotted "Kaya—to-night." 

 Her name came to his lips and he repeated it aloud, smiling to himself, musing. His eyes gazed into the coals, dreamy, heavy, half open, gleaming like dark slits under the brows. They closed gradually and his head fell lower. His hands relaxed. The violin lay on his breast, his pale cheek resting against the arch. 

 He was asleep. 

 All of a sudden there came a light tap on the door. A pause, a tap, still lighter; then another pause. 

 Velasco raised his head and tossed back his hair restlessly; his eyes drooped again. 

 "Tap—tap." 

 He started and listened. 

 Some one was at the Studio door—something. It was like the flutter of a bird's wing against the oak, softly, persistently. 

 "Tap—tap." 

 He rose slowly, reluctantly to his feet and went to the door. It was strange, inexplicable. After two, and the moon was gone, the night was dark—unless—An eager look came into his eyes. 

 "Who is there?" he cried, "Who are you? What do you want?" 

 A silence followed, as if the bird had poised suddenly with wings outstretched, hovering. Then it came again against the oak: "Tap—tap." 

 Velasco threw open the door: "Bózhe moi!" 

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