Paul’s mind turned to the blonde giant who had ridden on the train from New York, and the group of friends who had been waiting for him at the station.

“He was up to something—­the way he spoke,” thought Paul.  “And last night he was in that car on the bridge....  Where do these Bols hang out?” he asked aloud.

He was told they made their headquarters at Repetti’s pool-room, but though he looked in that establishment half a dozen times in the course of the day, he failed to see them.

“Looking for somebody?” an attendant asked him.

“Yes,” said Paul.  “Tall man with a light beard.  Came in from New York yesterday.”

“Oh, that bunch,” grinned the attendant.  “They’ve gone fishing again.  Going to get wet, too, if they ain’t back soon.”

For over three hours then the storm had raged, the rain falling with the force of a cloudburst.  At seven it stopped and, going out, Paul found himself drifting toward the house on the hill.

It was there he saw Mary turning in at the gate.  He stood for a long time looking at the lights in the windows and thinking those thoughts which can only come to the Ishmaels of the world—­to those sons of Hagar who may never return to their father’s homes.

“I was a fool for coming,” he half groaned, tasting the dregs of bitterness.  Unconsciously he compared the things that were with the things that might have been.

“She certainly acted like a queen to Rosa,” he thought once.

For a moment he felt a wild desire to enter the gate, to see his home again, to make himself known—­but the next moment he knew that this was his punishment—­“to look, to long, but ne’er again to feel the warmth of home.”

He returned to the pool-room, his eyes more tired than ever, and found a seat in a far corner.  Some one had left a paper in the next chair.  Paul was reading it when he became conscious of some one standing in front of him, waiting for him to look up.  It was his acquaintance of the day before—­the Russian traveller—­and Paul perceived that he was excited, and was holding himself very high.

“Good evening, batuchka,” said Paul, and looking at the other’s wet clothes he added, “I see you were caught in the storm.”

“You are right, batuchka,” said the other, and leaning over, his voice slightly shaking, he added, “Others, too, are about to be caught in a storm.”  He raised his finger with a touch of grandeur and took the chair by Paul’s side, breathing hard and obviously holding himself at a tension.

“Your friends aren’t with you tonight?”

Again the Russian spoke in parables.  “Some men run from great events.  Others stop to witness them.”

“Something in the wind,” thought Paul.  “I think he’ll talk.”  Aloud he said, pretending to yawn, “Great events, batuchka?  There are no more great events in the world.”

“I tell you, there are great events,” said the other, “wherever there are great men to do them.”