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Updated: June 23, 2025
Maschka and her fiancé kept punctiliously away. Then, before sitting down to the penultimate chapter, I permitted myself the relaxation of a day in the country. I can't tell you precisely where I went; I only know it was somewhere in Buckinghamshire, and that, ordering the car to await me a dozen miles farther on, I set out to walk.
At times I took up the sheets I had written as ignorant of their contents as if they had proceeded from another pen so freshly they came to me. Maschka checked and confirmed it afterwards; and I did not tell her by what odd circumstance it had issued from my pen. The day did come, however, when I found I must have it out with Schofield about this superciliousness I have mentioned.
I began to recover a little. "Did you tell her that?" I demanded of Schofield. "If you did, you misinterpreted me." In my house, he ignored the fact that I was in the room. He replied to Maschka. "I understood Mr. Harrison to say definitely, and in those words, that if I didn't like the way in which he was writing Michael's 'Life, I might write and publish one myself," he said.
The cough and rattle had come as Maschka had rushed into the room. In ten seconds Andriaovsky had fallen back, dead. That same evening I began to make notes for Andriaovsky's "Life." On the following day, the last of the fourth series of the Martin Renards occupied me until I was thankful to get to bed.
Not for one single moment did I intend that they should bounce me like that. With or without their sanction and countenance, I intended to write and publish that "Life." Schofield in my own house too had had the advantage that a poor and ill-dressed man has over one who is not poor and ill-dressed; but my duty first of all was neither to him nor to Maschka, but to my friend.
But thereafter I could call rather more of my time my own, and I began in good earnest to devote myself to the "Life." Maschka had spoken no more than the truth when she had said that of all men living none but I could write that "Life."
It did not need Maschka Andriaovsky to remind me that I had not attained my position without let us say splitting certain differences; the looseness of the expression can be corrected hereafter. Life consists very largely of compromises.
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.
When the drawings were all put away, all save that portrait, he gave an inquisitive glance round my library. It was the same glance as Maschka had given when she had feared to intrude on my time; but Schofield did these things with a much more heavy hand. He departed, but not before telling me that even my mansion contained such treasures as it had never held before.
Either you shouldn't have come to me at all, or you should deny yourself the gratification of these slurs." "Slurrrrs?" he repeated loweringly. "Both of you you and Miss Andriaovsky, or Maschka as I call her, tout court. Don't suppose I don't know as well as you do the exact worth of my 'sleuth-hound, as you call him.
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