s correspondent," she addressed me suddenly, "do
you think it is possible that he knew my son?"

To this strange question I could only say that it was possible of
course. She saw my surprise.

"If one knew what sort of man he was one could perhaps write to him,"
she murmured.

"Mother thinks," explained Miss Haldin, standing between us, with one
hand resting on the back of my chair, "that my poor brother perhaps did
not try to save himself."

I looked up at Miss Haldin in sympathetic consternation, but Miss Haldin
was looking down calmly at her mother. The latter said--

"We do not know the address of any of his friends. Indeed, we know
nothing of his Petersburg comrades. He had a multitude of young friends,
only he never spoke much of them. One could guess that they were his
disciples and that they idolized him. But he was so modest. One would
think that with so many devoted...."

She averted her head again and looked down the Boulevard des
Philosophes, a singularly arid and dusty thoroughfare, where nothing
could be seen at the moment but two dogs, a little girl in a pinafore
hopping on one leg, and in the distance a workman wheeling a bicycle.

"Even amongst the Apostles of Christ there was found a Judas," she
whispered as if to herself, but with the evident intention to be heard
by me.

The Russian visitors assembled in little knots, conversed amongst
themselves meantime, in low murmurs, and with brief glances in our
direction. It was a great contrast to the usual loud volubility of these
gatherings. Miss Haldin followed me into the ante-room.

"People will come," she said. "We cannot shut the door in their faces."

While I was putting on my overcoat she began to talk to me of her
mother. Poor Mrs. Haldin was fretting after more news. She wanted to go
on hearing about her unfortunate son. She could not make up her mind to
abandon him quietly to the dumb unknown. She would persist in pursuing
him in there through the long days of motionless silence face to face
with the empty Boulevard des Philosophes. She could not understand why
he had not escaped--as so many other revolutionists and conspirators
had managed to escape in other instances of that kind. It was really
inconceivable that the means of secret revolutionary organisations
should have failed so inexcusably to preserve her son. But in reality
the inconceivable that staggered her mind was nothing but the cruel
audacity of Death passing over her hea