he found them. He drew a deep sigh of disappointment at the result of his experiment.
He was nearing Westminster Bridge when he noticed some distance ahead a man whose arms rested on the top of the river wall, the one person, except the policeman, he had seen that night ignoring the meagre comfort of the benches. As he neared this person Stranleigh stopped, and himself leaned against the parapet, just under the ornamental lamp-post that rose from the wall. Stranleigh himself was in comparative obscurity, but the lamp shone full on the intellectual face of the stranger. It was a pathetic countenance, indicating great refinement, but the stamp of starvation was visible on the pallid features. It reminded him of one of the six pictures drawn by the late Fred Barnard to illustrate Dickens; the picture of Sidney Carton about to mount the scaffold, and looking back over his shoulder with the same wistful expression which was now before him in life.
Stranleigh remembered Fred Barnard with a pang of regret. One night, when they were dining together, Barnard had told him the history of the picture; how he searched in vain through London and Paris for any man whose face would realise his own dream of Sidney Carton. Then one night, under a lamp-post in Paris, he caught a momentary glimpse of the person who fulfilled his requirements, with refined features softened by the grief of a saviour, but the face was that of a woman, and he finished his well-known picture by placing a woman's head on a man's body.
Here, then, at last, was a fitting subject for any beneficence the young nobleman cared to bestow. Despite his evident hunger, the stranger appeared lost in some ecstatic dream, and he did not hear Stranleigh approach, but started when the latter accosted him, awakening from his reverie as if he knew not where he was.
"You pursue your meditations at a late hour, sir, and in an unaccustomed place."
After a moment the stranger replied:
"Ya ne govoriù po Anglisky."
"Ah! you are a Russian, and do not speak English," commented Stranleigh, using somewhat haltingly the other's language. "I possess one or two good friends in Russia, but confess that my attempts to converse in their tongue meet respectful sympathy, rather than commendation."
The stranger smiled, and his visionary eyes glistened with delight at even this attempt at his own speech.
"Do you understand French?" asked Stranleigh. It appeared that the stranger did, and their future communication took place in that language, which the Russian spoke exceedingly well.
"As I told you," Stranleigh went on, "I have several friends in Russia, of whom I am very fond, and for their sakes I proffer my assistance if you happen to need it."
"You are most kind," replied the Russian, "and it is true, as doubtless you have surmised, that I am in dire straits. I have had nothing to eat for nearly forty-eight hours."
"That is a state of things permitting no delay in the amending. Blessed is he who has nothing, for he need fear no trap. Will you come with me to my house, since all the restaurants of London are closed?"
They walked together to Westminster Bridge, where a friendly policeman whistled for a wandering cab, and then looked with some astonishment at the strangely-assorted pair. A hansom came flying across the bridge in response to the call. The richest man and the poorest in Europe got in together, and drove to Stranleigh House, where his lordship found an excellent supper laid awaiting his return.
"Champagne?" asked Stranleigh.
The Russian hesitated.
"I suppose," he said at last, "you keep no vodka?"
"As it happens," answered Stranleigh with a laugh, "I have just stocked a quantity of it; the best that can be found. My chief Russian friend is to visit me next week."
"I will take a little vodka, then," replied his guest, "since I have fallen into fortunate circumstances. I am sorry to be of such trouble, but the sudden change from hope to realisation has shown me how physically weak I am."
His fine white hand trembled as he raised the raw vodka to his lips, refusing to have its potency mitigated by water.
"Ah!" he sighed, setting down the glass again, "that assures me I am still in the land of the living. I must now eat very sparingly."
They sat down together, the visitor diluting his vodka with water, still refusing champagne. After the meal Stranleigh pushed over to him a box of Russian cigarettes, then took one himself.
"Will you tell me all about it now," he said, "or shall we wait till morning?"
The Russian did not answer on the moment, which hesitation appeared to be a habit of his, but gazed about as if marvelling at the luxury in which he found himself. As the aromatic smoke of the cigarette rose in the air he heaved a deep sigh of contentment.
"Does that mean, sir, that you offer a complete stranger the further hospitality of a bed? You hint I am to be here in the morning."
"Morning is so close upon us that it would not be worth your while searching for a lodging at this hour. Indeed, a stranger with no English might meet difficulty in obtaining a resting-place, and, besides, you could find nothing in London so comfortable as it is my privilege to offer."
"Sir, I hesitate to trespass——"
"It is no trespass, monsieur. This is a bachelor establishment, and I consult no one's convenience but my own, or that of my guest, and I assure you of an English welcome, recalling to your mind that our countries are friendly."
"Gospodín, if you allow me to sleep here on the sofa, it will be as heaven compared with the place where you found me."
Stranleigh laughed.
"In one at least of your Easterly religions there are seven heavens, and I prefer to send you to the seventh rather than the first. And now let us introduce ourselves. My name is Stranleigh."
"I am Vassili Nicolaievna. Until recently I was a student at the University of St. Petersburg."
"Did you fake a literary course there? I have guessed you to be a poet. Am I right or wrong?"
"Both, Gospodín Stranleigh. I dream poetry, but cannot express it in words. Still, I try to give expression to my dreams through these." He stretched out his hands; white, slight, but nevertheless powerful. "I have devoted my life to music, and so did not finish the course at the University. May I give you a song for my supper?"
He waved a hand towards the very splendid grand piano which stood at the end of the dining-room, ready, when Stranleigh gave a bachelor dinner, for the entertainment of his guests.
"I should be delighted," said his lordship.
The Russian opened the instrument, and sat down, plunging into a weird, fantastic, rather terrible selection that Stranleigh had never heard before. Then, after a moment's pause, he made the piano sing like a nightingale.
"Heaven prosper us!" ejaculated Stranleigh, when he rose, "I have never before heard that piano. You possess all the power of Rubinstein and all the delicacy of Paderewski. Who wrote that music?"
"Mine, mine, mine!" cried Nicolaievna. "Rubinstein was a Russian, and Paderewski is a Pole, but in music both belong to the past. 'Tis not up their stairway I am climbing. Wagner is the first step in my ascent, then Strauss, with his 'Elektra'; by and by it will be Vassili Nicolaievna.
