[Illustration: "HE SNATCHED UP HIS UNTASTED GLASS OF WINE AND FLUNG THE CONTENTS IN THE FACE OF VASSILITCH."] "Are you mad?" exclaimed Tweed, grasping the outstretched arm. A waiter who had observed the action took a step forward, then hesitated, ready for developments. The ex-officer of Cossacks wiped the liquid from his face and coat. He was very pale. He turned to Tweed. "I compliment you on the manners of your friends," said he; "they are delightful. I have the honour to wish you good evening." He bowed slightly, twice--the second time to Stefanovitch, who had sunk into a chair; then he quitted the room. V. The fatalistic idea that he was being carried onward in spite of himself would occur insistently; he felt that he was no longer master of circumstance. It was hardly to be wondered at, since it was largely a matter of nerves. Vassilitch had returned to his hotel after the scene at the club, and spent half the night writing a letter to Gabrielle; slept badly, breakfasted on four cups of black coffee, spent the best part of the day in pacing the narrow dimensions of his sitting-room, and was now--as the afternoon waned--as undecided as ever. He told himself that the only clear part of the business was that he could not do without her--no, nor would he; that he was guiltless of the crime that had awakened her abhorrence and fierce desire for justice. For her brother had escaped death, it appeared, and had come back. But that brother would denounce him, would have to be reckoned with. It was certainly awkward. The difference in their names did not puzzle him. Doubtless the name of Stefanovitch had been assumed from political reasons of prudence. But, then, he told himself, brother and sister must have met in England, perhaps weeks, even months past. In that case Gabrielle must have learned the truth, and so might very well be playing with him. This thought was terrible. Yet when he called to mind the obvious surprise and discomfiture of Stefanovitch he felt relieved. Then another suspicion arose: what if that meeting had been a prearranged thing? It was a little unusual that the Englishman, George Tweed, should accost him--a mere acquaintance--in Regent Street, and invite him to supper. Yes, it really did appear as if he were the dupe of Gabrielle and Stefanovitch, that they were indeed amusing themselves at his expense. If not, how strange that she should have said to him, of all men on earth, "Kill the man who killed my brother." This frightful suspicion was not to be endured. He combated it, since it was for his life. He strove to remember one soft look that she might have given him. He had imagined at times that she trusted a little in him. A firm resolve to act came at last to him. He tore into small pieces the letter that he had written. He would see Gabrielle--would end this torment.