prosaic voice of the young Englishman assailed his ears.

"My dear chap, what in the world are you doing? Not day-dreaming with
the mercury at thirty?"

"Foolish--but I was!" Blake answered, calmly. "I was watching that young
Russian stalk away into the unknown, and I was wondering--"

"What?"

He smiled a little cynically. "I was wondering, Billy, what type of
individual and what particular process fate will choose to let him break
himself upon."

* * * * *

The most splendid moment of an adventure is not always the moment of
fulfilment, not even the moment of conception, but the moment of first
accomplishment, when the adventurer deliberately sets his face toward
the new road, knowing that his boats are burned.

Nothing could have been less inspiring than the dreary Gare du Nord,
nothing less inviting than the glimpse of Paris to be caught through its
open doorways; but had the whole world laughed him a welcome, the young
Russian's step could not have been more elastic, his courage higher, his
heart more ready to pulse to the quick march of his thoughts, as he
strode down the gray platform and out into the open.

In the open he paused to study his surroundings. As yet the full tale of
passengers had not emerged, and only an occasional wayfarer, devoid of