I knew the reason of Maschka’s visit the moment she was announced.  Even in the stressful moments of the funeral she had found time to whisper to me that she hoped to call upon me at an early date.  I dismissed the amanuensis to whom I was dictating the last story of the fourth series of Martin Renard, gave a few hasty instructions to my secretary, and told the servant to show Miss Andriaovsky into the drawing-room, to ask her to be so good as to excuse me for five minutes, to order tea at once, and then to bring my visitor up to the library.

A few minutes later she was shown into the room.

She was dressed in the same plainly cut costume of dead black she had worn at the funeral, and had pushed up her heavy veil over the close-fitting cap of black fur that accentuated her Sclavonic appearance.  I noticed again with distress the pallor of her face and the bistred rings that weeks of nursing had put under her dark eyes.  I noticed also her resemblance, in feature and stature, to her brother.  I placed a chair for her; the tea-tray followed her in; and without more than a murmured greeting she peeled off her gloves and prepared to preside at the tray.

She had filled the cups, and I had handed her toast, before she spoke.  Then: 

“I suppose you know what I’ve come about,” she said.

I nodded.

“Long, long ago you promised it.  Nobody else can do it.  The only question is ‘when.’”

“That’s the only question,” I agreed.

“We, naturally,” she continued, after a glance in which her eyes mutely thanked me for my implied promise, “are anxious that it should be as soon as possible; but, of course—­I shall quite understand—­”

She gave a momentary glance round my library.  I helped her out.

“You mean that I’m a very important person nowadays, and that you’re afraid to trespass on my time.  Never mind that.  I shall find time for this.  But tell me before we go any further exactly how you stand and precisely what it is you expect.”

Briefly she did so.  It did not in the least surprise me to learn that her brother had died penniless.

“And if you hadn’t undertaken the ‘Life,’” she said, “he might just as well not have worked in poverty all these years.  You can, at least, see to his fame.”

I nodded again gravely, and ruminated for a moment.  Then I spoke.

“I can write it, fully and in detail, up to five years ago,” I said.  “You know what happened then.  I tried my best to help him, but he never would let me.  Tell me, Maschka, why he wouldn’t sell me that portrait.”

I knew instantly, from her quick confusion, that her brother had spoken to her about the portrait he had refused to sell me, and had probably told her the reason for his refusal.  I watched her as she evaded the question as well as she could.

“You know how—­queer—­he was about who he sold his things to.  And as for those five years in which you saw less of him, Schofield will tell you all you want to know.”