te their strange garb and complexion, went
about freely. The Russian composer of ballets was just then the mode.

Some clever caricatures appeared of Illowski representing him as a
musical Napoleon, cocked hat, sleek white horse and all. Another gave
him the goat's beard of Brother Jonathan, with the baton of a Yankee
band-master; and then it was assured that the much advertised composer
was a joking American masquerading as a Slav, possibly the vender of
some new religious cure born in the fanatical bake-ovens of Western
America. "Faust" alternated with "Les Huguenots" at the Opera, Pilsner
beer was on tap at the Cafe Monferino--why worry over exotic stories
told of this visitor's abnormal musical powers? And little did anyone
surmise that he had just given a symphonic setting to Lingwood Evans's
insurrectionary poem with its ghastly refrain: "I hear the grinding of
the swords, and He shall come--" Thus did Paris unwittingly harbor the
poet, philosopher, composer and pontiff of the new dispensation--Pavel
Illowski. And Lenyard with Scheff was hastening to Auteuil to see
Neshevna, whose other name was never known.

III

Lenyard disliked Neshevna before he saw her; when they met he made no
attempt to conceal his hatred. He again told himself this, as with
Scheff he pursued the gravel path leading to the porter's lodge of
Illowski's house. In Auteuil it overlooked the Seine which flowed a
snake of sunny silver between its green-ribbed banks. Together the pair
entered, mounted a low flight of steps and rang the private bell.
Neshevna opened the door. In the flood of a westering sun the accents of
her fluid Slavic face and her mannish head set upon narrow
shoulders--all the disagreeable qualities of the woman--were exaggerated
by this bath of clear light. Her hard gaze softened when she saw Scheff.
She spoke to him, not noticing the other:

"The master is not at home." Lenyard contradicted her: "He is; the
concierge said so."

"The concierge lies; but come in. I will see."

Following her they reached the music room, which was bare of
instruments, pictures, furniture, all save a tall desk upon which lay a
heap of music paper. Neshevna made a loping dart to the desk--she was
like a wolf in her movements--and threw a handkerchief over it. Lenyard
watched her curiously. Scheff gave one of his good-natured yawns and
then laughed:

"Neshevna, we come to ask!"

"What?" she gravely inquired. There was a lithe alertness