ack from the distance.

Velasco's arms dropped to his side and he stared fiercely from one
official to the other. He tried to speak and could not. The cry came
back to him, and as he heard it, his throat throbbed, his heart seemed
to stop beating.

"You can go now," said the official. "We know who you are, and there
is nothing against you."

He whispered something to the Chief. They handed him his violin and
his case with its wrappings, and led him to the door. He followed them
out, up the winding steps, through the passages, out into the court,
stumbling blindly.

"You can go--there is nothing against you."

He walked straight on with his head bent forward, his eyes on the
ground. He clasped the violin in one hand, the case with the other.
He was shivering.

The cry followed him out into the street. It rang in his ears. Her
eyes were gazing into his with a strange tenseness. He could feel
them. He was dumb, he was helpless.

Oh God--the cry again! It was low, it was faint, it was broken with
pain. He stumbled on.

[1] Very well.

CHAPTER VIII

"Is Monsieur Velasco in?"

"He is, sir."

"Tell him his manager, Galitsin, is here and must speak to him at once."

"Very well, Barin, but--he is composing. He has been composing for
days--Monsieur knows?"

"I know," said the Manager.

He was a short, thick-set man with crisp, curly hair, a wide mouth, a
blunt nose, and eyes that twinkled perpetually as though at some inward
joke that he did not share with the rest of the world; they twinkled
now and he snapped his fingers.

"Go ahead, Bobo, you coward. If he insists on hurling a boot at your
head, why dodge it--dodge it! Or wait, stay where you are. I will
announce myself."

The old servant retreated with alacrity down the hallway, stepping
lightly as if on eggs with his finger on his lips, while the Manager
opened the Studio door softly, without knocking, and closed it behind
him.

Before the fire-place, with his back to the door, sat Velasco. His
shoulders were bent, his head was in his hands; he was motionless. The
Manager cleared his throat slowly with emphasis:

"Eh, Velasco, is that you?"

The young Musician leaped to his feet as if struck by a blow, and faced
the intruder angrily, tossing the hair away from his brows. His face
was pale, as of one who has watched instead of sleeping, and his eyes
were haggard and bloodshot.

"A hundred devils take you!" he cried,