And still the cold increased, and the personality of Fane's invisible companion seemed to develop in power. There was a sort of silent violence in the hidden room, as if a noiseless combat were taking place. Waves of darkness were stirred into motion; and Fane, as a man is drawn by the retreating tides of the sea out and away, was drawn from the wall where he had been crouching. He stole along the floor, the dagger held in his right hand, his heart barely beating, his lips white--nearer, nearer to his enemy. He counted each step, until he was enfolded in the inmost circle of that deadly frost emanating from the blackness before him. Then, with a hoarse cry, he lifted his arm and sprang forward and upward, dashing the dagger down as one plunging it through a human heart. The cry died suddenly into silence. There was the sound of a heavy fall. It reached the ears of the servants below stairs. The footman took a light, and, with a scared face, went hesitatingly to the studio door, paused outside and listened while the female servants huddled in the passage. The heavy silence succeeding the strange sound appalled them, but at length the man thrust the door open and peered in. The light from the candle flickered merrily upon Fane's bowed figure, huddled face downwards upon the floor. His neck was broken. The statue, that was the dead sculptor's last earthly achievement, stood as if watching over him. But it was no longer perfect and complete. Some splinters of marble had been struck from the left breast, and among them, on the smooth parquet, lay a bent Oriental dagger. A BOUDOIR BOY I "It is so impossible to be young," Claude Melville said very wearily, and with his little air of played-out indifference. He was smoking a cigarette, as always, and wore a dark red smoking-suit that, he thought, went excellently with his black eyes and swarthy complexion. His father had been a blue-eyed Saxon giant, his mother a pretty Kentish woman, with an apple-blossom complexion and sunny hair; yet he managed to look exquisitely Turkish, and thought himself a clever boy for so doing. But then he always thought himself clever. He had cultivated this conception of himself until it had become a confirmed habit of mind. On his head was a fez with a tassel, and he was sitting upon the hearthrug with his long legs crossed meditatively. His room was dimly lit, and had an aspect of divans, Attar of roses scented the air. A fire was burning, although it was a spring evening and not cold. London roared faintly in the distance, like a lion at a far-away evening party. "It is so impossible to be young," Claude repeated, without emphasis. "I was middle-aged at ten. Now I am twenty-two, and have done everything I ought not to have done, I feel that life has become altogether improbable. Even if I live until I am seventy--the correct age for entering into one's dotage, I believe--I cannot expect to have a second childhood. I have never had a first."