before them again; a dull thread of coming ill possessed them. On

the boulevard the cry was passing, hoarse and wild:

"A BERLIN! A BERLIN! A BERLIN!"

Presently, when they were making up their minds to go, a voice was

heard calling from the passage:

Gaga opened the door in astonishment and disappeared for a moment.

"My dear," she said, "it's Fauchery. He's out there at the end of

the corridor. He won't come any further, and he's beside himself