All of a sudden there came a light tap on the door. A pause, a tap, still lighter; then another pause.
Velasco raised his head and tossed back his hair restlessly; his eyes drooped again.
"Tap—tap."
He started and listened.
Some one was at the Studio door—something. It was like the flutter of a bird's wing against the oak, softly, persistently.
"Tap—tap."
He rose slowly, reluctantly to his feet and went to the door. It was strange, inexplicable. After two, and the moon was gone, the night was dark—unless—An eager look came into his eyes.
"Who is there?" he cried, "Who are you? What do you want?"
A silence followed, as if the bird had poised suddenly with wings outstretched, hovering. Then it came again against the oak: "Tap—tap."
Velasco threw open the door: "Bózhe moi!"