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“Antoine, my son.”

“Yes.”

Antoine sat quite still, far back in a big leather chair in the lounge of the Parisian hotel—a morose little boy with an unchildlike face. He did not look at his father—he rather preferred not to. He never expected his father to be anything but unpleasant, and the parental expression this morning was, if possible, more unpleasant than usual. The only effect of the mellifluous caressing tones which Gaston threw into his voice was to put his small son on his guard.

“Yes,” he said indifferently.

“What a grunt, little pig! Your manners grow more charming every day. . . . Antoine, I go to Moscow to-night.”

“I know, but I needn’t go and pack yet. It does not take me long to———,”

“I said I go. For you there is no room.”

Antoine’s head flew up with a jerk. There was generally something to be afraid of behind the jokes of Gaston Ste. Croix, and this sounded like a particularly heavy example. Antoine and his father were alone in the world—ever since