Sophia Kensky was a loyal and faithful adherent to the cause she had espoused, and her report, written in the weird caligraphy of Russia, greatly interested the butler of the Grand Duke Yaroslav.  From that report he learned of the visit which the Grand Duchess Irene had paid; learned, too, that she had been escorted to her car by an Englishman, whose name the woman did not know; and was to discover later that the said “Englishman” had been sent out by Israel Kensky on a special mission.  That mission was to discover the Silver Lion, a no very difficult task.  In point of fact, it was discoverable in a London telephone directory, because the upper part of the premises were used legitimately enough in the proprietor’s business as restaurateur.

Malcolm Hay had lunch at the place and saw nothing suspicious in its character.  Most of the clientele were obviously foreign, and not a few were Russian.  Pretending to lose his way, he wandered through the service door, and there made the important discovery that the kitchen was on the top floor, and also that meals were being served somewhere in the basement.  This he saw during the few minutes he was allowed to make observations, because there was a service lift which was sent down to the unseen clients below.

He apologized for his intrusion and went out.  Officially there was no basement-room, nor, from the restaurant itself, any sign of stairs which led down to an underground chamber.  He made a further reconnaissance, and found the back door which Sophia Kensky had described in her hypnotic sleep, and the location of which the old man had endeavoured to convey to his agent.

Malcolm Hay was gifted with many of the qualities which make up the equipment of a good detective.  In addition, he had the education and training of an engineer.  That the underground room existed, he knew by certain structural evidence, and waited about in the street until he saw three men come out and the door close behind them.  After awhile, another two emerged.  There was nothing sinister or romantic about the existence of a basement dining-room, or even of a basement club-room.

The character of this club was probably well known to the police, he thought, and pursued his inquiries to Marlborough Street police station.  There he found, as he had expected, that the club was registered and known as “The Foreign Friends of Freedom Club.”  The officer who supplied him with the information told him that the premises were visited at frequent intervals by a representative of the police, and that nothing of an irregular character had been reported.

“Have you any complaints to make?” asked the official.

“None whatever,” smiled Hay.  “Only I am writing an article on the foreign clubs of London, and I want to be sure of my facts.”

It was the first and most plausible lie that occurred to him, and it answered his purpose.  He returned to Kensky with his information, and the old man producing a map of London, he marked the spot with a red cross.  All this time Malcolm Hay was busy making preparations for departure.  He would have been glad to stay on, so that his leaving London would coincide with the departure of the Grand Duchess, but his sleeper had already been booked, and he had to make a call en route at Vienna.

It was on the occasion of this visit with details of the location and character of the club, that he first saw Sophia Kensky.  He thought her pretty in a bold, heavy way, and she regarded him with insolent indifference.  It was one of the few occasions in his life that he spoke with her.

“The gospodar is going to Kieff, Sophia Kensky,” introduced the old man.

“What will you do in Kieff, Excellency?” asked the woman indolently.

“I shall not be in Kieff,” smiled Hay, “except on rare occasions.  I am taking charge of some oil-wells about twenty versts outside of the town.”

“It is a terrible life, living in the country,” she said, and he was inclined to agree.

This and a few trite sentiments about Russian weather and Russian seasons were the only words he ever exchanged with her in his life.  Years later, when he stood, hardly daring to breathe, in the cupboard of a commissary’s office, and heard her wild denunciation of the man who had sent her to death, he was to recall this first and only meeting.

Israel Kensky dismissed his daughter without ceremony, and it was then that Malcolm Hay told him the result of his investigations.  The old man sat for a long time stroking his beard.

“Two more days they stay in this town,” he said, half to himself, “and that is the dangerous time.”

He looked up sharply at Hay.

“You are clever, and you are English,” he said.  “Would you not help an old man to save this young life from misery and sorrow?”

Malcolm Hay looked at him in astonishment.

“To save whom?” he asked.

“The Grand Duchess,” replied Kensky moodily.  “It is for her I fear, more than for her father.”

Malcolm Hay was on the point of blurting out the very vital truth that there was nothing in the wide world he would not do to save that wonderful being from the slightest ache or pain, but thought it best to dissemble the craziest of infatuations that ever a penniless and obscure engineer felt for a daughter of the Imperial House of Russia.  Instead he murmured some conventional expression of his willingness.

“It is in this club that the danger lies,” said Kensky.  “I know these societies, Mr. Hay, and I fear them most when they look most innocent.”

“Could you not get the police to watch?” asked Malcolm.

Had he lived in Russia, or had he had the experience which was his in the following twelve months, he would not have asked so absurd a question.

“No, no,” said Kensky, “this is not a matter for the police.  It is a matter for those who love her.”

“What can I do?” asked Malcolm hastily.

He had a horrible feeling that his secret had been surprised, for he was of the age when love is fearless of everything except ridicule.

“You could watch the club,” said Kensky.  “I myself would go, but I am too old, and this English weather makes me sick.”

“You mean actually watch it?” said Malcolm in surprise.  “Why, I’ll do that like a shot!”

“Note who goes in and who come out,” said Kensky.  “Be on hand at all times, in case you are called upon for help.  You will see my daughter there,” he said, after a pause, and a faint smile curved his pale lips.  “Yes, Sophia Kensky is a great conspirator!”

“Whom do you expect me to see?” asked the other bluntly.

Kensky got up from his chair and went to a leather bag which stood on the sideboard.  This he unlocked, and from a mass of papers took a photograph.  He brought it back to the young man.

“Why,” said Malcolm in surprise, “that is the man Serganoff, the Prince fellow!”

Kensky nodded slowly.

“That is Serganoff,” he said.  “Here is another picture of him, but not of his face.”

It was, in fact, a snapshot photograph showing the back of the Police Chief; and it might have been, thought Malcolm, of a tailor’s dummy, with its wasp waist and its perfectly creased trousers.

“Particularly I wish to know whether he will visit the club in the next two days,” said the old man.  “It is important that you should look for him.”

“Anybody else?”

Kensky hesitated.

“I hope not,” he said.  “I hope not!”

Malcolm Hay went back to his hotel, feeling a new zest in life.  His experience of the past few days had been incredible.  He, an unknown student, had found himself suddenly plunged into the heart of an anarchist plot, and on nodding terms with royal highnesses!  He laughed softly as he sat on the edge of his bed and reviewed all the circumstances, but did not laugh when the thought occurred to him that the danger which might be threatening this girl was very real.

That side of the adventure sobered him.  He had sense enough to see that it was the unalienable right of youth to believe in fairies and to love beautiful princesses, and that such passions were entitled to disturb the rest and obscure the judgment of their victims for days and even for weeks.  But he had an unpleasant conviction that he was looking at the Grand Duchess from an angle which was outside his experience of fairy stories.

That night when he went on his way to take up his “police duty” in the little street behind the Silver Lion, he saw two mounted policemen trotting briskly down the Strand followed by a closed carriage, and in the light of the electric standard he caught a glimpse of a face which set his heart beating faster.  He cursed himself for his folly, swore so vigorously and so violently at his own stupidity, that he did not realize he was talking aloud, until the open-mouthed indignation of an elderly lady brought him to a sense of decorum.

She was going to the theatre, of course, he thought, and wondered what theatre would be graced by her presence.  He half regretted his promise to Israel Kensky, which prevented him discovering the house of entertainment and securing a box or a stall from whence he could feast his eyes upon her face.

His vigil was painfully monotonous.  It was the most uninteresting job he had ever undertaken.  Most of the habitues of the club had evidently come at an early hour, for he saw nobody come in and nobody go out until nearly eleven o’clock.  It began to rain a fine, thin drizzle, which penetrated every crevice, which insinuated itself down his neck, though his collar was upturned; and then, on top of this, came a gusty easterly wind, which chilled him to the marrow.  Keeping in the shadow of the houses opposite, he maintained, however, a careful scrutiny, thereby earning the suspicion of a policeman, who passed him twice on his beat before he stopped to ask if he were looking for somebody.

As midnight chimed from a neighbouring church the door of the club opened and its members came out.  Malcolm crossed the road and walked down to meet them, since they all seemed to be coming in the same direction.

There were about twenty men, and they were speaking in Russian or Yiddish, but the subjects of their discourse were of the most innocent character.  He saw nobody he knew, or had ever seen before.  Israel Kensky had expected that the St. Petersburg Chief of Police would be present; that expectation was not realized.  Then he heard the door bolted and chained, and went home, after the most unprofitable evening he had ever spent.

How much better it would have been to sit in the warm theatre, with, perhaps, a clear view of the girl, watching her every movement, seeing her smile, noting her little tricks of manner or gesture.

In the end he laughed himself into a sane condition of mind, ate a hearty supper, and went to bed to dream that Serganoff was pursuing him with a hammer in his hand, and that the Grand Duchess was sitting in a box wildly applauding the efforts of her homicidal relative.

The next afternoon Malcolm Hay was packing, with the remainder of his belongings, a few articles he had purchased in London.  Amongst these was a small and serviceable Colt revolver, and he stood balancing this in the palm of his hand, uncertain as to whether it would not be better to retain his weapon until after his present adventure.  Twice he put it into his portmanteau and twice took it out again, and finally, blushing at the act, he slipped the weapon into his hip-pocket.

He felt theatrical and cheap in doing so.  He told himself that he was investing a very common-place measure of precaution taken by old Israel Kensky, who was probably in the secret police, to protect his protegee, with an importance and a romance which it did not deserve.  He went down to his post that night, feeling horribly self-conscious.  This time he kept on the same side of the street as that on which the club was situated.

His watch was rewarded by events of greater interest than had occurred on the previous night.  He had not been on duty half an hour before two men walked rapidly from the end of the street and passed him so closely that he could not make any mistake as to the identity of one.  Had he not been able to recognize him, his voice would have instantly betrayed his identity, for, as they passed, the shorter of the two was talking.

“I’m one of those guys who don’t believe in starving to death in a delicatessen store ­”

Malcolm looked after the pair in amazement.  It was the little man whom he had befriended in the courtyard at Charing Cross station.  Other people drifted through the door in ones and twos, and then a man came walking smartly across the street, betraying the soldier at every stride.  Malcolm turned and strolled in his direction.

There was no mistaking him either, though he was muffled up to the chin.  With his tight-waisted greatcoat, a glimpse of an olive face with two piercing dark eyes, which flashed an inquiring glance as they passed ­there was no excuse for error.  It was Colonel Prince Serganoff beyond a doubt.

A quarter of an hour later came the real shock of the evening.  A girl was almost on top of him before he saw her, for she was wearing shoes which made no sound.  He had only time to turn so that she did not see his face, before she too entered the door and passed in.  The Grand Duchess!  And Serganoff!  And the American adventurer!

What had these three in common, he wondered.  And now he recalled the warning of the old man.  Perhaps the girl was in danger ­the thought brought him to the door, with his hand raised and touching the bell-push before he realized his folly.  There was nothing to do but wait.

Five minutes passed and ten minutes, and then Malcolm Hay became conscious of the fact that something unusual was happening in the street.  It was more thickly populated.  Half a dozen men had appeared at either end of the street and were moving slowly towards him, as though ­

And then in a flash he realized just what was happening.  It was a police raid.  In his student days he had seen such a raid upon a gambling house, and he recognized all the signs.  He first thought of the girl ­she must not be involved in this.  He raced toward the door, but somebody had ran quicker, and his hand was on the bell-push when he was swung violently backwards, and an authoritative voice said: 

“Take that man, sergeant.”

A hand gripped his shoulder and somebody peered in his face.

“Why, he’s English,” he said in surprise.

“Yes, yes,” gasped Malcolm.  “I’m sorry to interfere, but there is a lady in there, in whom I’m rather interested ­you’re raiding this club, aren’t you?”

“That’s about the size of it,” said a man in civilian clothes; and then, suspiciously, “Who are you?”

Malcolm explained his status and calling.

“Take my advice and get away.  Don’t be mixed up in this business,” said the officer.  “You can release him, sergeant.  What’s the time?”

A clock struck at that moment, and the officer in charge of the raid pressed the bell.

“If you’ve a lady friend involved in this, perhaps you’d like to stand by,” he said.  “She may want you to bail her out,” he added good-humouredly.