Rowland paused suggestively, then waited.
"My name?" the tall man said at last--"I am called Markov. Perhaps you will not believe that I was once a gentleman. But that matters nothing. I was taken ill with tubercular trouble and knew that I must live in the open air." He laughed a little bitterly. "My occupation will amuse you. I travel with a hurdy-gurdy, a piano organ drawn by my excellent Fra Umberto from one end of Germany and Austria to the other."
"And who is Fra Umberto?" asked Rowland.
"A donkey, sir, the best, the only friend I ever had, patient, enduring, honest, amiable, who asks nothing, borrows no money and does what I ask of him without question. What more could one ask of friendship than that?"
Rowland laughed.
"Nothing, God knows. And where is he, your friend?"
"In the stable nearby, with my precious instrument of torture. The Germans are a musical race. In the cities they chase me away but in the country--all Summer long I gathered in the pfennigs, a harvest which lasts me through the winter--here in this palatial habitation. But I am happy for my trunk is full of books. I read, I study, I dream----"
Herr Markov put his hand to his brow, gazed at the silent figure of Zoya Rochal for a moment and then with an abrupt gesture of abnegation, rose and closed the door.
"I--I am selfish keeping you awake with my story, Herr Rowland. You have been through much. We cannot tell what may come. You must rest. Take off your coat at least--a dry, warm garment--and sleep."
"But you--Herr Markov----?"