As he spoke, a strange suspicion that was half an apprehension came into his head.  He had been looking the whole time at Strelitski’s face with his usual unobservant gaze, just seeing it was gloomy.  Now, as in a sudden flash, he saw it sallow and careworn to the last degree.  The eyes were almost feverish, the black curl on the brow was unkempt, and there was a streak or two of gray easily visible against the intense sable.  What change had come over him?  Why this new-born interest in Esther?  Raphael felt a vague unreasoning resentment rising in him, mingled with distress at Strelitski’s discomposure.

“No; I don’t know that there is any particular reason why I want to know,” answered his friend slowly.  “She was a member of my congregation.  I always had a certain interest in her, which has naturally not been diminished by her sudden departure from our midst, and by the knowledge that she was the author of that sensational novel.  I think it was cruel of Mrs. Henry Goldsmith to turn her adrift; one must allow for the effervescence of genius.”

“Who told you Mrs. Henry Goldsmith turned her adrift?” asked Raphael hotly.

“Mrs. Henry Goldsmith,” said Strelitski with a slight accent of wonder.

“Then it’s a lie!” Raphael exclaimed, thrusting out his arms in intense agitation.  “A mean, cowardly lie!  I shall never go to see that woman again, unless it is to let her know what I think of her.”

“Ah, then you do know something about Miss Ansell?” said Strelitski, with growing surprise.  Raphael in a rage was a new experience.  There were those who asserted that anger was not among his gifts.

“Nothing about her life since she left Mrs. Goldsmith; but I saw her before, and she told me it was her intention to cut herself adrift.  Nobody knew about her authorship of the book; nobody would have known to this day if she had not chosen to reveal it.”

The minister was trembling.

“She cut herself adrift?” he repeated interrogatively.  “But why?”

“I will tell you,” said Raphael in low tones.  “I don’t think it will be betraying her confidence to say that she found her position of dependence extremely irksome; it seemed to cripple her soul.  Now I see what Mrs. Goldsmith is.  I can understand better what life in her society meant for a girl like that.”

“And what has become of her?” asked the Russian.  His face was agitated, the lips were almost white.

“I do not know,” said Raphael, almost in a whisper, his voice failing in a sudden upwelling of tumultuous feeling.  The ever-whirling wheel of journalism—­that modern realization of the labor of Sisyphus—­had carried him round without giving him even time to remember that time was flying.  Day had slipped into week and week into month, without his moving an inch from his groove in search of the girl whose unhappiness was yet always at the back of his thoughts.  Now he was shaken with astonished self-reproach at his having allowed her to drift perhaps irretrievably beyond his ken.