Chapter 23 No.23

Monday in Whitsun-week. Blue heavens, with slowly piling up storm-clouds, and in all Paris a close, oppressive heat. Toward two o'clock a cab rolls up the Rue Blanche. In the cab sits Mascha, a large bouquet of white roses on her knees. Her blue eyes are strangely staring.

"Is Fr?ulein von Sankjéwitch in her studio?" asks Mascha, of the concierg