tter?" said Israel Kensky. "Save your breath, little
daughter. Why should you not walk in the street if you desire?"

He switched on the light to augment the red glow which came from the
fire.

"Sit down, Sophia," he said, "I have been waiting for you. I heard you
go out."

She made no reply. There was fear in her eyes, and all the time she was
conscious of many unpleasant interviews with her father--interviews
which had taken place in Kieff and in other towns--the details of which
she could never recall. And she was filled with a dread of some
happening to which she could not give form or description. He saw her
shifting in her chair and smiled slowly.

"Get me the little box which is on my dressing-table, Sophia Kensky," he
said.

He was seated by the fire, his hands outstretched to the red coal. After
a moment's hesitation she got up, went to the dressing-table, and
brought back a small box. It was heavy and made of some metal over which
a brilliant black enamel had been laid.

"Open the box, Sophia Kensky," said the old man, not turning his head.

She had a dim recollection that she had been asked to do this before,
but again could not remember when or in what circumstances. She opened
the lid and looked within. On a bed of black velvet was a tiny convex
mirror, about the size of a sixpence. She looked at this, and was still
looking at it when she walked slowly back to her chair and sat down. It
had such a fascination, this little mirror, that she could not tear her
eyes away.

"Close your eyes," said Kensky in a monotonous voice, and she obeyed.
"You cannot open them," said the old man, and she shook her head and
repeated:

"I cannot open them."

"Now you shall tell me, Sophia Kensky, where you went this night."

In halting tones she told him of her meeting with Yakoff, of their walk,
of the cab, of the little door in the back street, and the stone stairs
that led to the whitewashed passage; and then she gave, as near as she
knew, a full account of all that had taken place. Only when she came to
describe Bim and to tell of what he said, did she flounder. Bim had
spoken in a foreign language, and the translation of Yakoff had conveyed
very little to her. But in this part of the narrative the old man was
less interested. Again and again he returned to Boolba and the plot.

"What hand will kill the Grand Duke?" he asked, not once but many
times, and invariably she answered:

"I do not know."

"On wh