Israel Kensky was dozing before the fire when the sound of the creaking stair woke him.  He walked softly to the door and listened, and presently he heard the steps of his daughter passing along the corridor.  He opened the door suddenly and stepped out, and she jumped back with a little cry of alarm.  There were moments when she was terribly afraid of her father, and such a moment came to her now.

“Are you not asleep, Israel Kensky?” she faltered.

“I could not sleep,” replied the other, in so mild a tone that she took courage.  “Come into my room.  I wish to speak to you.”

He did not ask her where she had been, or to explain why, at three o’clock in the morning, she was dressed for the street, and she felt it necessary to offer some explanation.

“You wonder why I am dressed?” she said.

“I heard a great noise in the street, and went out to see ­”

“What does it matter?” said Israel Kensky.  “Save your breath, little daughter.  Why should you not walk in the street if you desire?”

He switched on the light to augment the red glow which came from the fire.

“Sit down, Sophia,” he said, “I have been waiting for you.  I heard you go out.”

She made no reply.  There was fear in her eyes, and all the time she was conscious of many unpleasant interviews with her father ­interviews which had taken place in Kieff and in other towns ­the details of which she could never recall.  And she was filled with a dread of some happening to which she could not give form or description.  He saw her shifting in her chair and smiled slowly.

“Get me the little box which is on my dressing-table, Sophia Kensky,” he said.

He was seated by the fire, his hands outstretched to the red coal.  After a moment’s hesitation she got up, went to the dressing-table, and brought back a small box.  It was heavy and made of some metal over which a brilliant black enamel had been laid.

“Open the box, Sophia Kensky,” said the old man, not turning his head.

She had a dim recollection that she had been asked to do this before, but again could not remember when or in what circumstances.  She opened the lid and looked within.  On a bed of black velvet was a tiny convex mirror, about the size of a sixpence.  She looked at this, and was still looking at it when she walked slowly back to her chair and sat down.  It had such a fascination, this little mirror, that she could not tear her eyes away.

“Close your eyes,” said Kensky in a monotonous voice, and she obeyed.  “You cannot open them,” said the old man, and she shook her head and repeated: 

“I cannot open them.”

“Now you shall tell me, Sophia Kensky, where you went this night.”

In halting tones she told him of her meeting with Yakoff, of their walk, of the cab, of the little door in the back street, and the stone stairs that led to the whitewashed passage; and then she gave, as near as she knew, a full account of all that had taken place.  Only when she came to describe Bim and to tell of what he said, did she flounder.  Bim had spoken in a foreign language, and the translation of Yakoff had conveyed very little to her.  But in this part of the narrative the old man was less interested.  Again and again he returned to Boolba and the plot.

“What hand will kill the Grand Duke?” he asked, not once but many times, and invariably she answered: 

“I do not know.”

“On whose behalf does Boolba act?” asked the old man.  “Think, Sophia Kensky!  Who will give this foreigner twenty thousand roubles?”

“I do not know,” she answered again.

Presently a note of distress was evident in her voice, and Israel Kensky rose up and took the box from her hand.

“You will go to bed, Sophia Kensky,” he said slowly and deliberately, “and to-morrow morning, when you wake, you shall not remember anything that happened after you came into this house to-night.  You shall not remember that I spoke to you or that I asked you to look in the little box.  Do you understand?”

“Yes, Israel Kensky,” she replied slowly, and walked with weary feet from the room.

Israel Kensky listened and heard her door click, then closed his own, and, sitting at a table, began to write quickly.  He was still writing when the grey dawn showed in his windows at six o’clock.  He blotted the last letter and addressed an envelope to “The Most Excellent and Illustrious Highness the Grand Duchess Irene Yaroslav” before, without troubling to undress, he sank down upon his bed into a sleep of exhaustion.

Malcolm Hay had an appointment with Mr. Tremayne on the morning that saw Israel Kensky engaged in frantic letter-writing.  It was about Kensky that Tremayne spoke.

“He has arrived in London,” he said, “and is staying in Colbury Terrace, Maida Vale.  I think you had better see him, because, as I told you, he is a local big-wig and may be very useful to you.  Our wells, as you know, are about thirty miles outside Kieff, which is the nearest big town, so you may be seeing him pretty often.  Also, by the way, he is our agent.  If you have any trouble with Government officials you must see Kensky, who can generally put things square.”

“I believe his daughter is with him,” Mr. Tremayne went on, “but I know very little about her.  Yet another neighbour of yours arrives by special train at midday.”

“Another neighbour of mine?” repeated Malcolm with a smile.  “And who is that?”

“The Grand Duke Yaroslav.  I don’t suppose you’ll have very much to do with him, but he’s the King Pippin in your part of the world.”

A clerk came in with a typewritten sheet covered with Russian characters.

“Here’s your letter of introduction to Kensky.  He knows just as much English as you will want him to know.”

When Malcolm presented himself at the lodgings, it was to discover that the old Jew had gone out, and had left no message as to the time he would return.  Since Malcolm was anxious to meet this important personage, he did not leave his letter, but went into the City to lunch with an old college chum.  In the afternoon he decided to make his call, and only remembered, as he was walking up the Strand, that he had intended satisfying his curiosity as to that “other neighbour” of his, the Grand Duke Yaroslav.

There was a little crowd about Charing Cross Station, though it was nearly two hours after midday when the Yaroslavs were due; and he was to discover, on inquiry of a policeman, that the cause of this public curiosity had been the arrival of two royal carriages.

“Some Russian prince or other,” said the obliging bobby.  “The boat was late, and ­here they come!”

Malcolm was standing on the side-walk in the courtyard of Charing Cross Station when the two open landaus drove out through the archway.  In the first was a man a little over middle age, wearing a Russian uniform; but Malcolm had no eyes for him ­it was for the girl who sat by his side, erect, haughty, almost disdainful, with her splendid beauty, and apparently oblivious to all that was being said to her by the smiling young man who sat on the opposite seat.

As the carriage came abreast and the postilions reined in their mounts before turning into the crowded Strand, the girl turned her head for a second and her eyes seemed to rest on Malcolm.

Instinctively he lifted his hat from his head, but it was not the girl who returned his salutation, but the stiff figure of the elderly man at her side who raised his hand with an automatic gesture.  Only for a second, and then she swept out of view, and Malcolm heaved a long, deep sigh.

“Some dame!” said a voice at his side.  “Well, I’m glad I saw him, anyway.”

Malcolm looked down at the speaker.  He was a stout little man, who wore his hard felt hat at a rakish angle.  The butt of a fat cigar was clenched between his teeth, and his genial eyes met Malcolm’s with an inviting frankness which was irresistible.

“That was his Grand Nibs, wasn’t it?” asked the man, and Malcolm smiled.

“That was the Grand Duke, I think,” he said.

“And who was the dame?”

“The dame?”

“I mean the lady, the young peacherino ­gee!  She was wonderful!”

Malcolm shared his enthusiasm but was not prepared to express himself with such vigour.

“That girl,” said his companion, speaking with evident sincerity, “is wasted ­what a face for a beauty chorus!”

Malcolm laughed.  He was not a very approachable man, but there was something about this stranger which broke down all barriers.

“Well, I’m glad I’ve seen him,” said Mr. Cherry Bim again emphatically.  “I wonder what he’s done.”

Malcolm turned to move off, and the little man followed his example.

“What do you mean ­what has he done?” asked the amused Malcolm.

“Oh, nothing,” said the other airily, “but I just wondered, that’s all.”

“I’m glad I’ve seen them too,” said Malcolm; “I nearly missed them.  I was sitting so long over lunch ­”

“You’re a lucky man,” said Mr. Bim.

“To have seen them?”

“No, to have sat over lunch,” said Cherry with an inward groan.  “My!  I’d like to see what a lunch looks like.”

Malcolm looked at the man with a new interest and a new sympathy.

“Broke?” he asked, and the other grinned.

“If I was only broke,” he said, “there’d be no trouble.  But what’s the matter with me is that there ain’t any pieces!”

Cherry Bim noticed the hesitation in Malcolm’s face and said: 

“I hope you’re not worrying about hurting my feelings.”

“How?” said the startled Malcolm.

“Why,” drawled the other, “if it’s among your mind that you’d like to slip me two dollars and you’re afraid of me throwing it at you, why, you can get that out of your mind straightaway.”

Malcolm laughed and handed half a sovereign to the man.

“Go and get something to eat,” he said.

“Hold hard,” said the other as Malcolm was turning away.  “What is your name?”

“Does that matter?” asked the young man with amusement.

“It matters a lot to me,” said the other seriously.  “I like to pay back anything I borrow.”

“Hay is my name ­Malcolm Hay.  It’s no use giving you my address, because I shall be in Russia next week.”

“In Russia, eh?  That’s rum!” Cherry Bim scratched his unshaven chin.  “I’m always meeting Russians.”

He looked at the young engineer thoughtfully, then, with a little jerk of his head and a “So long!” he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Malcolm looked at his watch.  He would try Kensky again, he thought; but again his mission was fruitless.  He might have given up his search for this will-o’-the-wisp but for the fact that his new employers seemed to attach considerable importance to his making acquaintance with this notability of Kieff.  He could hardly be out after dinner ­he would try again.

He had dressed for the solitary meal, thinking that, if his quest again failed, he could spend the evening at a theatre.  This time the elderly landlady of the house in which Mr. Kensky lodged informed him that her guest was at home; and a few moments later Malcolm was ushered into the presence of the old man.

Israel Kensky eyed his visitor keenly, taking him in from his carefully tied dress-bow to the tips of his polished boots.  It was an approving glance, for Kensky, though he lived in one of the backwaters of civilization; though his attitude to the privileged classes of the world ­in which category he placed Malcolm, did that young man but know it ­was deferential and even servile; had very definite views as to what was, and was not, appropriate in his superior’s attire.

He read through the letter which Malcolm had brought without a word, and then: 

“Pray sit down, Mr. Hay,” he said in English.  “I have been expecting you.  I had a letter from Mr. Tremayne.”

Malcolm seated himself near the rough bench at which he cast curious eyes.  The paraphernalia of Kensky’s hobby still lay upon its surface.

“You are wondering what an old Jew does to amuse himself, eh?” chuckled Kensky.  “Do you think we in South Russia do nothing but make bombs?  If I had not an aptitude for business,” he said (he pronounced the word “pizziness,” and it was one of the few mispronunciations he made), “I should have been a bookbinder.”

“It is beautiful work,” said Malcolm, who knew something of the art.

“It takes my mind from things,” said Kensky, “and also it helps me ­yes, it helps me very much.”

Malcolm did not ask him in what manner his craft might assist a millionaire merchant, for in those days he had not heard of the “Book of All-Power.”

The conversation which followed travelled through awkward stages and more awkward pauses.  Kensky looked a dozen times at the clock, and on the second occasion Malcolm, feeling uncomfortable, rose to go, but was eagerly invited to seat himself again.

“You are going to Russia?”

“Yes.”

“It is a strange country if you do not know it.  And the Russians are strange people.  And to Kieff also!  That is most important.”

Malcolm did not inquire where the importance lay, and dismissed this as an oblique piece of politeness on the other’s part.

“I am afraid I am detaining you, Mr. Kensky.  I merely came in to make your acquaintance and shake hands with you,” he said, rising, after yet another anxious glance at the clock on the part of his host.

“No, no, no,” protested Kensky.  “You must forgive me, Mr. Hay, if I seem to be dreaming and I do not entertain you.  I am turning over in my mind so many possibilities, so many plans, and I think I have come to the right conclusion.  You shall stay, and you shall know.  I can rely upon your discretion, can I not?”

“Certainly, but ­”

“I know I can!” said the old man, nodding “And you can help me.  I am a stranger in London.  Tell me, Mr. Hay, do you know the Cafe of the Silver Lion?”

The other was staggered by the question.

“No, I can’t say that I do,” he admitted.  “I am a comparative stranger in London myself.”

“Ah, but you can find it.  You know all the reference books, which are so much Greek to me; you could discover it by inquiring of the police ­inquiries made very discreetly, you understand, Mr. Hay?”

Malcolm wondered what he was driving at, but the old man changed the subject abruptly.

“To-night you will see a lady here.  She is coming to me.  Again I ask for your discretion and your silence.  Wait!”

He shuffled to the window, pulled aside the blind and looked out.

“She is here,” he said in a whisper.  “You will stand just there.”

He indicated a position which to Malcolm was ludicrously suggestive of his standing in a corner.  Further explanations could neither be given nor asked for.  The door opened suddenly and a girl came in, closing it behind her.  She looked first at Kensky with a smile, and then at the stranger, and the smile faded from her lips.  As for Malcolm, he was speechless.  There was no doubt at all as to the identity.  The straight nose, the glorious eyes, the full, parted lips.

Kensky shuffled across to her, bent down and kissed her hand.

“Highness,” he said humbly, “this gentleman is a friend of mine.  Trust old Israel Kensky, Highness!”

“I trust you, Israel Kensky,” she replied in Russian, and with the sweetest smile that Malcolm had ever seen in a woman.

She bowed slightly to the young man, and for the rest of the interview her eyes and speech were for the Jew.  He brought a chair forward for her, dusted it carefully, and she sat down by the table, leaning her chin on her palm, and looking at the old man.

“I could not come before,” she said.  “It was so difficult to get away.”

“Your Highness received my letter?”

She nodded.

“But Israel,” her voice almost pleaded, “you do not believe that this thing would happen?”

“Highness, all things are possible,” said the old man.  “Here in London the cellars and garrets teem with evil men.”

“But the police ­” she began.

“The police cannot shelter you, Highness, as they do in our Russia.”

“I must warn the Grand Duke,” she said thoughtfully, “and” ­she hesitated, and a shadow passed over her face ­“and the Prince.  Is it not him they hate?”

Kensky shook his head.

“Lady,” he said humbly, “in my letter I told you there was something which could not be put on paper, and that I will tell you now.  And if I speak of very high matters, your Highness must forgive an old man.”

She nodded, and again her laugh twinkled in her eyes.

“Your father, the Grand Duke Yaroslav,” he said, “has one child, who is your Highness.”

She nodded.

“The heir to the Grand Dukedom is ­” He stopped inquiringly.

“The heir?” she said slowly.  “Why, it is Prince Serganoff.  He is with us.”

Malcolm remembered the olive-faced young man who had sat on the seat of the royal carriage facing the girl; and instinctively he knew that this was Prince Serganoff, though in what relationship he stood to the Grand Ducal pair he had no means of knowing.

“The heir is Prince Serganoff,” said the old man slowly, “and his Highness is an ambitious man.  Many things can happen in our Russia, little lady.  If the Grand Duke were killed ­”

“Impossible!” She sprang to her feet.  “He would never dare!  He would never dare!”

Kensky spread out his expressive hands.

“Who knows?” he said.  “Men and women are the slaves of their ambition.”

She looked at him intently.

“He would never dare,” she said slowly.  “No, no, I cannot believe that.”

The old man made no reply.

“Where did you learn this, Israel Kensky?” she asked.

“From a good source, Highness,” he replied evasively, and she nodded.

“I know you would not tell me this unless there were some foundation,” she said.  “And your friend?” She looked inquiringly at the silent Hay.  “Does he know?”

Israel Kensky shook his head.

“I would wish that the gospodar knew as much as possible, because he will be in Kieff, and who knows what will happen in Kieff?  Besides, he knows London.”

Malcolm did not attempt to deny the knowledge, partly because, in spite of his protest, he had a fairly useful working knowledge of the metropolis.

“I shall ask the gospodar to discover the meeting-place of the rabble.”

“Do you suggest,” she demanded, “that Prince Serganoff is behind this conspiracy, that he is the person who inspired this idea of assassination?”

Again the old man spread out his hands.

“The world is a very wicked place,” he said.

“And the Prince has many enemies,” she added with a bright smile.  “You must know that, Israel Kensky.  My cousin is Chief of the Political Police in St. Petersburg, and it is certain that people will speak against him.”

The old man was eyeing her thoughtfully.

“Your Highness has much wisdom,” he said, “and I remember, when you were a little girl, how you used to point out to me the bad men from the good.  Tell me, lady, is Prince Serganoff a good man or a bad man?  Is he capable or incapable of such a crime?”

She did not answer.  In truth she could not answer; for all that Kensky had said, she had thought.  She rose to her feet.

“I must go now, Israel Kensky,” she said.  “My car is waiting for me.  I will write to you.”

She would have gone alone, but Malcolm Hay, with amazing courage, stepped forward.

“If Your Imperial Highness will accept my escort to your car,” he said humbly, “I shall be honoured.”

She looked at him in doubt.

“I think I would rather go alone.”

“Let the young man go with you, Highness,” said Kensky earnestly.  “I shall feel safer in my mind.”

She nodded, and led the way down the stairs.  They turned out of the garden into the street and did not speak a word.  Presently the girl said in English: 

“You must think we Russian people are barbarians, Mr. ­”

“Hay,” suggested Malcolm.

“Mr. Hay.  That is Scottish, isn’t it?  Tell me, do you think we are uncivilized?”

“No, Your Highness,” stammered Malcolm.  “How can I think that?”

They walked on until they came in sight of the tail lights of the car, and then she stopped.

“You must not come any farther,” she said.  “You can stand here and watch me go.  Do you know any more than Israel Kensky told?” she asked, a little anxiously.

“Nothing,” he replied in truth.

She offered her hand, and he bent over it.

“Good night, Mr. Hay.  Do not forget, I must see you in Kieff.”

He watched the red lights of the car disappear and walked quickly back to old Kensky’s rooms.  Russia and his appointment had a new fascination.