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 river; somewhere in the bushes the first birds of the morning twittered faintly and uncertainly.

Suddenly a familiar voice called out to him—the voice he had heard on the telephone—that strangely cold and indifferent voice.

"I'm here, Andrew Pavlovitch," said Mme Omejina.

Kragaef turned in the direction of the voice and saw his hostess seated on a bench near a flower-bed.

She sat there and looked up at him smiling. She was dressed exactly as he afterwards painted her in the picture; in the same black gown of an exquisitely simple cut, entirely without any ornament or trimming—in the same black broad-brimmed hat with a white feather—her hands were clasped behind her back and seemed to be fastened there—there, calmly resting on the gravel-path were her bare white feet en- circled by golden bracelets—the thin gold chain which fastened them just glittering in the half-light.

She was smiling just that same uncertain smile which Kragaef afterwards showed in her portrait, and she said to him:

"Good evening, Andrew Pavlovitch. I felt sure somehow that you would not fail