on the blotted words and then the stage door closed behind him. They were few and almost illegible. 

 "Will you help me—life or death—tonight? Kaya."  The rest was a blot. He scanned them again more closely and shook the hair from his eyes. 

 "Velasco! Velasco—Viva!" 

 When the young Violinist came forward for the third time, his dark eyes flashed to the eyes of the girl like steel to a magnet. They seemed to plead, to wrestle with him. 

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

 Did her lips move; was it a signal? Her hands seemed to beckon him. He bowed low to the loggia, like one in a trance, once, twice, their eyes still together. And then, suddenly, he wrenched himself away remembering the House, the shouting, cheering, waving House. 

 "Ah—h Velasco—o!" 

 Lifting his violin he began to play again slowly, dreamily, hardly knowing how or why, a weird, chanting Polish improvisation like a love song, a song without words. His eyes opened and closed again. Always that gaze, pleading, wrestling, that flower-like face, those clasped hands beckoning. 

 Who was she—Kaya? His heart beat and throbbed; he was suffocating. With a last wild and passionate note Velasco tore the bow from the strings; it was as though the earth had opened and swallowed him up; he was gone. 

 

 [1] My God. 

 [2] A thousand devils! 

 

 

 CHAPTER II 

 In one of the poorer quarters of St. Petersburg there is a street on a back canal, and over the street an arch. To the right of the arch is a flight of steps, ancient and worm-eaten, difficult of climbing by day by reason of a hole here, a worn place there, and the perilous tilting of the boards; at night well nigh impassable without a lantern. The steps wind and end in a tenement, once a palace, spanning the water. 

 It was midnight. 

 A cloud had come over the moon, light and fleecy 

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