She got into a taxi quickly, finding one in Grosvenor Street because she was afraid to wait to look in Park Lane, in case, by chance, she should be observed; and at last she reached the Neville Street lodging, and rang the noisy bell.

The slatternly little servant said that the gentleman was “hout,” but would the lady come in and wait?  He would not be long, as he had said “as how he was only going to take a telegram.”

Zara entered at once.  A telegram!—­perhaps for her—­Yes, surely for her.  Mimo had no one else, she knew, to telegraph to.  She went up to the dingy attic studio.  The fire was almost out, and the little maid lit one candle and placed it upon a table.  It was very cold on this damp November day.  The place struck her as piteously poor, after the grandeur from which she had come.  Dear, foolish, generous Mimo!  She must do something for him—­and would plan how.  The room had the air of scrupulous cleanness which his things always wore, and there was the “Apache” picture waiting for her to take, in a new gold frame; and the “London Fog” seemed to be advanced, too; he had evidently worked at it late, because his palette and brushes, still wet, were on a box beside it, and on a chair near was his violin.  He was no born musician like Mirko, but played very well.  The palette and brushes showed he must have put them hurriedly down.  What for?  Why?  Had some message come for him?  Had he heard news?  And a chill feeling gripped her heart.  She looked about to see if Mirko had written a letter, or one of his funny little postcards?  No, there was nothing—­nothing she had not seen except, yes, just this one on a picture of the town.  Only a few words:  “Thank Cherisette for her letter, Agatha is tres jolie, but does not understand the violin, and wants to play it herself.  And heavens! the noise!” How he managed to post these cards was always a mystery; they were marked with the mark of doubling up twice, so it showed he concealed them somewhere and perhaps popped them into a pillar-box, when out for a walk.  This one was dated two days ago.  Could anything have happened since?  She burned with impatience for Mimo to come in.

A cheap, little clock struck seven.  Where could he be?  The minutes seemed to drag into an eternity.  All sorts of possibilities struck her, and then she controlled herself and became calm.

There was a large photograph of her mother, which Mimo had colored really well.  It was in a silver frame upon the mantelpiece, and she gazed and gazed at that, and whispered aloud in the gloomy room: 

“Maman, adoree! Take care of your little one now, even if he must come to you soon.”

And beside this there was another, of Mimo, taken at the same time, when Zara and her mother had gone to the Emperor’s palace in that far land.  How wonderfully handsome he was then, and even still!—­and how the air of insouciance suited him, in that splendid white and gold uniform.  But Mimo looked always a gentleman, even in his shabbiest coat.