ssed her lover at
the gateway of her house; he guessed nothing--he knew nothing but that
her hands were shaking and that her face was white, but when he was gone
she rushed to her own room, cast off all her jewels, wrapped herself in
a fur cloak and commanded her sledge and her swiftest horses."

"Boy!" cried Blake. "What a situation!"

"She drove, drove for hours, feeling nothing of the biting cold, seeing
nothing of the imprisoning white world about her, goaded by one
idea--the terror of life--the terror of giving herself again--"

"She fled," cried Blake, with sudden intuition. "She never returned to
Petersburg!" He had risen from his chair; he was supremely, profoundly
interested.

"She never returned to her own house. Three days after that wild drive
she left Russia--left Russia and came--"

"To you!" cried Blake. "What a superb situation! She came back to
you--the companion of her youth--to you, adventuring here in your own
odd way! Oh, boy, it's great!"

"It is strange--yes!" said Max, suddenly curbing himself.

"Strange? It's stupendous!" Blake caught him by the shoulder, wheeling
him round, looking straight into his face. "Boy! You know what I'm going
to ask? You know what I'm wanting with all my heart and soul?"

The pressure of his hand was hard; he was the Blake of rare moments--the
Blake roused from nonchalant good-nature into urgency of purpose. Max
felt a doubt, a thin, wavering fear flutter across his mind.

"_Mon cher_," he stammered, "I do not know. How could I know?"

"It's this, then! With all my heart and soul I want to know this sister
of yours."

CHAPTER XXIV

It came sharply, as the crash of a breaking vessel might come to the
ear--this ring of reality in Blake's voice! Abruptly, unpleasantly, Max
came back to the world and the consequences of his act.

Impressions and instincts spring to the artist mind; in a moment he was
armored for self-preservation--so straitly armored that every sentiment,
even the vague-stirring jealousy of himself that had been given sudden
birth, was overridden and cast into the dark.

With the old hauteur, the old touch of imperiousness, he returned
Blake's glance.

"_Mon ami_," he said, gravely, "what you desire is impossible."

Only a moment had intervened between Blake's declaration and his reply,
but it seemed to him that the universe had reeled and steadied again in
that brief interval.

"And why impossible?"

Again it was the atmosph