Four short months before, Carter and Carrick had set out for Krovitch. It did not seem possible that so many conclusive, completed events could have transpired in that limited time. It seemed more like some whirlwind dream to the man who, pale and wan, sat in the reading-room of the Racquet Club gazing indolently at the passing throng outside the club windows. It was Calvert Carter, of course, who so reasoned.

Carrick was dead, he continued in his reflections. Of a certainty this had been a grievous blow, but even this was overshadowed by the doubt as to the whereabouts of his beloved Trusia.

"Four months ago," he said aloud in his surprise, "the same man sat in this same club, before this same window, and"—he paused, while his hand ran along the arm of the chair as he glanced down at it,—"in this very chair. He fretted because life could not give him enough of excitement and contest—could not give him love. Well, to show him that her resources were boundless, Life gave him all he wanted—then took back her gifts." Relapsing into silence again with a heavy sigh, he contemplated the strange warp of destiny.

Trusia, his beloved Trusia,—where was she? Wealth had not been spared, nor time, in a hitherto fruitless effort to locate her. On this, his first excursion from the sick-room, he was already planning to take up the search himself—to scour Europe until he found her. Yet some instinct, stronger than he dared admit, warned him that she was closer to him where he now sat.

Puzzled, he gazed out the window, hoping that the panorama of the moving crowds would ease his worried mind. A man's face detached itself from the encircling throng, catching and holding Carter's attention. He leaned eagerly forward, why, he could not have explained. At this, the man, also turned and looked. An impartial observer of both would have said that these two were in doubt as to whether they recognized each other. The man on the sidewalk, while clean, was rather seedy-looking and apparently a foreigner. His face was drawn and hollow as though privation had sculptured there. His beard was full and streaked with gray. His eyes alternately burned with the fires of inward visions and dulled with disappointment at hopes destroyed. Carter arose and went closer to the window, with steps still unsteady in his convalescence.

The stranger had passed, but, noting Carter's action, repassed, evidently as much at loss as the man inside. To him, too, there was something strangely familiar about the thin, pale face, the languid, hopeless air, of the man in the club window,—but they were not the attributes of the man he remembered. Nor was this shade the vigorous friend he had known so short a while before.

Carter walked deliberately out to the street and extended his hand to the passer-by who had so strangely moved him. Recognition was complete.

"It is you, at last, Sobieska," he said as the thin hand of the Krovitzer closed over his own. A smile lighted up the half-veiled eyes, he read in the American's soul that word of their distress had come too late.

"Come into the club," Carter urged him. Sobieska smiled grimly as he glanced down at his shabby garments. Carter understood.

"Let's walk out to the Park," suggested the Krovitzer. "I have something to tell you that I know you are anxious to hear. Wait, though, until we get out of the crowd. You don't want Fifth Avenue as an audience, do you?" he asked as he noted the quick joy which lit Carter's face."Just one question," Calvert begged. "Is she well?"

"Yes," replied the Krovitzer, confining himself to the naked assent. Then, pitying the man who had been so wofully shaken since their parting in Krovitch, he opened the gate of Pity a bit and added, "She is in New York."

Carter stopped short in the street and turned to read in the other's eyes whether this promised miracle was true or false. He reached out and caught Sobieska's hand and wrung it with the fervor he would fain have loosed in a cheer.

"Thank God," he said vehemently. "Are we going to her, now?"

Sobieska nodded an affirmative.

"Is it far?"

"Not over two miles."

"And you intend to walk? Great Scott, man, do you think I have lead in my veins instead of blood?"

"No, Carter, but remember that I have no longer money at my command. Poverty has taught me strange tricks of economy. Pride would not let me think of asking you if you preferred riding."

"You might have known," said Carter reproachfully, "that every cent I have would be at your disposal for such an errand."

His companion nodded his head wearily. Was the fellow not satisfied, he thought? It meant that he was being led to the woman that he, Sobieska, loved with fervor equal to Carter's. Why should he hasten the minute that would place her in the American's arms? Ah, well, Trusia loved him. That must suffice. They entered a cab which had drawn up in answer to Carter's hail.

"I will not apologize for our lodgings," said Sobieska, as he gave a cheap East Side locality to the driver as their destination. "Thousands of my countrymen have no better."

As the cab rattled along, he gave the details of their varied vicissitudes and the determined faith of Trusia in Carter, culminating in her insistence that they come to New York to find him. "Some woman instinct told her that you had not received my letter and she feared that some calamity had befallen you that nothing but her coming would dispel." By the work of his hands and the sweat of his brow he had finally been able to secure their passage on an ocean steamship.

"We arrived two weeks ago to-morrow," said the Krovitzer. "Twice I called at your house, three times at your club. They supposed I was some beggar, no doubt, and never gave you my messages. Having no money over actual necessities for either telephones or postage stamps, I took the poor man's way of communicating with you while I sought work—waited till I could see you. In fact, Carter, to be perfectly frank, I did not know but that our altered circumstances might influence you as it has some other acquaintances I have appealed to."

"That is unjust, Sobieska," said Carter.

"I should have known better," answered Sobieska apologetically, "but, Carter, we have had some pretty hard knocks. You were silent to my letter—how could I guess you were ill? I was rebuffed at both your house and club. A sensitive man might well read your acquiescence in such treatment. Will you accept my apology? Here we are," he added, as the cab drew up to the curb.

"Don't apologize," said Carter, shaking him by the hand, while his eyes hungrily devoured the front of the tenement with avidity that sought for some sign of Trusia. "Is this the place?" The grimy pile was sanctified in his eyes as it sheltered the woman to whom he had given his whole heart.

Trembling like an eager child, after dismissing the cabby, he scrambled breathlessly after his guide up steep and dirty stairs to the third floor, past passages and open doors, which showed more than one family huddled together in single apartments.

"She does not live as these?" he asked with repugnance."No," said his companion, regarding a group with unconcealed compassion, "I was fortunate enough to secure a separate room for her, poor as it is." But the man nobly concealed the price he had had to pay, to be content to sleep upon a straw mattress in a sub-cellar—nor did Trusia know what sacrifices her former minister was making for her meagre comforts.

The door of an apartment stood open at the end of the next turn in the entry. Both men, hushed by conflicting emotions, stood regarding the scene before them.

At a window, her face a trifle thinner, more spirituelle, because of her heartaches, sat Trusia. The light, touching the edges of her hair, glinted into an iridescent halo about her face. Across her knees lay a little child. Its mother, with anxious, peasant face, was bending over its ailing form, while the large, whole-souled regard which Trusia bent upon the tiny form made a picture of a modern Madonna.

Then, the air whispered its tidings to her soul. She glanced up and saw Carter standing in the passageway. Gently placing the infant in the maternal arms held out for it, she arose and without a spoken word came to him; came so close that there was nothing for him to do but to take her tenderly in his arms. Assured of their right, her hands lay on his shoulders, while her eyes sought out his soul.

Then, careless whether the whole world looked on or not, their lips met gently, lingeringly.

"Though all thrones have fallen," she sighed blissfully, "you are still my King."

"Trusia, my Trusia," he said, while Sobieska fled silently from their view.

FINALE