Malcolm was awakened in the night by a scream.  He sprang from the bench, his face bathed in perspiration.

“What was that?” he asked hoarsely.

Malinkoff was sitting on the edge of the bench rubbing his eyes.

“I heard something,” he yawned.

Only Cheery Bim had not moved.  He was lying on his back with his knees up and his hands behind his head, wide awake.

“What was it, Cherry?” asked Malcolm.

Slowly the little man rose and stretched himself.

“I wonder what the time is,” he said evasively.

Malcolm looked at his watch.

“Half-past three,” he replied.

“He’s asleep anyway,” said Cherry, nodding towards the recumbent figure of the priest.  “He might have been useful ­but I forgot the old man’s a Jew.”

“Do you mean ?” said Malinkoff and glanced at the gate.

Cherry nodded again.

“I never thought they’d carry it out according to programme,” he said, “but they did.  I heard ’em come in.”

There was the thud of a door closing.

“That’s the door of his cell.  They have taken him out, I guess.  The last fellow they killed in there they hung on a hook ­just put a rope round his neck and pushed him in a bag.  He was a long time dying,” he said reflectively, and Malcolm saw that the little man’s lower lip was trembling in spite of his calm, matter-of-fact tone.

Malinkoff had walked across to the priest, and had shaken him awake.

“Father,” he said, “a man has just died in the next cell.  Would you not read the Office of the Dead?”

The priest rose with an ill grace.

“Why should I be awakened from my sleep?” he complained.  “Who is this man?”

“I do not know his name,” said Malinkoff, “but he is a Jew ­”

“A Jew!”

The priest spat on the ground contemptuously.

“What, I speak an office for a Jew?” he demanded, wrath in his face.

“For a man, for a human fellow creature,” said Malinkoff sternly, but the priest had gone back to his hard couch, nor would he leave it, and Malinkoff, with a shrug of his shoulders, went back to his bed.

“That is Russia ­eternal Russia,” he said, and he spoke without bitterness.  “Neither Czar nor Soviet will alter it.”

They did not go to sleep again.  Something was speaking to them from the next cell, something that whimpered and raised its hands in appeal, and they welcomed the daylight, but not the diversion which daylight brought.  Again the door banged open, and this time a file of soldiers stood in the entrance.

“Boris Michaelovitch,” said the dark figure in the entrance, “it is the hour!”

The priest rose slowly.  His face was grey, the hands clasped together before him shook; nevertheless, he walked firmly to the door.

Before the soldiers had closed around him he turned and raised his hand in blessing, and Malinkoff fell upon his knees.

Again the door slammed and the bolts shot home, and they waited in silence.

There was no sound for ten minutes, then came a crash of musketry, so unexpected and so loud that it almost deafened them.  A second volley followed, and after an interval a third, and then silence.  Cherry Bim wiped his forehead.

“Three this morning,” he said unsteadily.  “Anyway, it’s better than hanging.”

There was a long pause, and then: 

“Say,” he said, “I’m sorry I said I was glad that guy was going.”

Malcolm understood.

The day brought Irene at the same hour as on the previous afternoon.  She looked around for the priest, and apparently understood, for she made no reference to the missing man.

“If you can get away from here,” she said, “go to Preopojenski.  That is a village a few versts from here.  I tell you this, but ­”

She did not complete her sentence, but Malcolm could guess from the hopeless despair in her voice.

“Excuse me, miss,” interrupted Cherry Bim.  “Ain’t there any way of getting a gun for a man?  Any old kind of gun,” he said urgently; “Colt, Smith-Wesson, Browning, Mauser ­I can handle ’em all ­but Colt preferred.”

She shook her head sadly.

“It is impossible,” she said.  “I am searched every time I come in through the lodge.”

“In a pie,” urged Cherry.  “I’ve read in stories how you can get these things in a pie.  Couldn’t you make ­”

“It’s quite impossible,” she said.  “Even bread is cut into four pieces.  That is done in the lodge.”

Cherry Bim cast envious eyes on the tall guard at the doorway.  He had a long revolver.

“I’ll bet,” said Cherry bitterly, “he don’t know any more about a gun than a school-marm.  Why, he couldn’t hit a house unless he was inside of it.”

“I must go now,” said the girl hastily.

“Tell me one thing,” said Malcolm.  “You spoke yesterday of having one friend.  Is that friend Israel Kensky?”

“Hush!” she said.

She took his hand in both of hers.

“Good-bye, Mr. Hay,” she said.  “I may not come to-morrow.”

Her voice was hard and strained, and she seemed anxious to end the interview.

“Boolba told me this morning,” she went on, speaking rapidly but little above a whisper, “that he had ­certain plans about me.  Good-bye, Mr. Hay!”

This time she shook hands with Malinkoff.

“Don’t forget the village of Preopojensky,” she repeated.  “There is only the slightest chance, but if God is merciful and you reach the outside world, you will find the house of Ivan Petroff ­please remember that.”  And in a minute she was gone.

“I wonder what was wrong,” said Malcolm.  “She was not so frightened when she came in, then she changed as though ­”

Looking round he had seen, only for the fraction of a second, a hand through the grating over the bench.  Someone had been listening in the next cell, and the girl had seen him.  He sprang upon a bench and peered through, in time to see the man vanish beyond the angle of his vision.  Malinkoff was lighting his last cigarette.

“My friend,” he said, “I have an idea that in the early hours of the morning you and I will go the same way as the unfortunate priest.”

“What makes you think so?” asked Malcolm quickly.

“Not only do I, but the Grand Duchess thinks so also,” said Malinkoff.  “Possibly this is news.”

Again the door was opened, and this time it was an officer of the Red Guard who appeared.  He had evidently been chosen because of his knowledge of English.

“I want the thief,” he said tersely in that language.

“That sounds remarkably like me,” said Cherry.

He put on his Derby hat slowly and went forth in his shirt-sleeves.  They watched him through the window being taken across the courtyard and through the archway which led to the prison offices and the outer gate.

“They haven’t released him, I suppose?” asked Malcolm, and Malinkoff shook his head.

“He is to be interrogated,” he said.  “Evidently there is something which Boolba wants to know about us, and which he believes this man will tell.”

Malcolm was silent, turning matters over in his mind.

“He won’t tell anything that will injure us,” he said.

“But the man is a crook,” said Malinkoff; “that is the word, isn’t it?”

“That’s the word,” agreed Malcolm grimly, “but he’s also a man of my own race and breed, and whilst I would not trust him with my pocket-book ­or I should not have trusted him before I came in here ­I think I can trust him with my life, supposing that he has my life in his hands.”

In twenty minutes Cherry Bim was back, very solemn and mysterious until the gaoler was gone.  Then he asked: 

“Who is Israel Kensky, anyway?”

“Why?” asked Malcolm quickly.

“Because I’m going to make a statement about him ­a written statement,” he said cheerfully.  “I’m going to have a room all to myself,” he spoke slowly as though he were repeating something which he had already told himself, “because I am not a quick writer.  Then I am going to tell all that she said about Israel Kensky.”

“You can tell that in a second,” said Malcolm sternly, and the little man raised a lofty hand.

“Don’t get up in the air.”

“Why have they sent you back now?”

“To ask a question or two,” said Cherry.

He put on his coat, examined the interior of his hat thoughtfully, and jammed it down on his head.

“Ten minutes are supposed to elapse,” he said melodramatically, “passed in light and airy conversation about a book ­the ’Book of ­of ­”

“’All-Power’?” said Malcolm.

“That’s the fellow.  I should say it’s the history of this darned place.  Here they come.”

He pulled down his coat, brushed his sleeves and stepped forward briskly to meet the English-speaking officer.

They passed an anxious two hours before he returned, and, if anything, he was more solemn than ever.  He made no reply to their questions, but paced the room, and then he began to sing, and his tune had more reason than rhyme.

“Look through the grating,” he chanted, “see if anybody is watching or listening, my honey, oh my honey!”

“There’s nobody there,” said Malcolm after a brief inspection.

“He’ll be back again in five minutes,” said Cherry, stopping his song and speaking rapidly.  “I told him I wanted to be sure on one point, and he brought me back.  I could have done it, but I wouldn’t leave you alone.”

“Done what?” asked Malcolm.

“Saved myself.  Do you know what I saw when I got into that room for the first time?  The guy in charge was locking away in a desk three guns and about ten packets of shells.  It sounds like a fairy story, but it’s true, and it’s a desk with a lock that you could open with your teeth!”

It was Malinkoff who saw the possibilities of the situation which the man described.

“And they left you alone in the room?” he asked quickly.

“Sure,” said Cherry.  “Lift my hat, and lift it steady.”

Malcolm pulled his hat up, and the butt of a revolver slipped out.

“There’s a Browning there ­be careful,” said Cherry, ducking his head and pulling off his hat in one motion.  “Here’s the other under my arm,” he put his hand beneath his coat and pulled out a Colt.

“Here are the shells for the automatic.  I’ll take the long fellow.  Now listen, you boys,” said Cherry.  “Through that gateway at the end of the yard, you come to another yard and another gate, which has a guard on it.  Whether we get away or whether we don’t, depends on whether our luck is in or out.”

“Look!” he whispered, “here comes Percy!”

The door swung open and the officer beckoned Cherry forward with a lift of his chin.  Cherry walked toward him and the officer half turned in the attitude of one who was showing another out.  Cherry’s hand shot out, caught the man by the loose of his tunic and swung him into the room.

“Laugh and the world laughs with you,” said Cherry, who had an assortment of literary quotations culled from heaven knows where.  “Shout and you sleep alone!”

The muzzle of a long-barrelled ’45 was stuck in the man’s stomach.  He did not see it, but he guessed it, and his hands went up.

“Tie him up ­he wears braces,” said Cherry.  “I’ll take that belt of deadly weapons.”  He pulled one revolver from the man’s holster and examined it with an expert’s eye.  “Not been cleaned for a month,” he growled; “you don’t deserve to be trusted with a gun.”

He strapped the belt about his waist and sighed happily.

They gagged the man with a handkerchief, and threw him ungently upon the bench before they passed through the open door to comparative freedom.  Cherry locked and bolted the door behind them, and pulled down the outer shutter, with which, on occasions, the gaoler made life in the cells a little more unendurable by excluding the light.  The cells were below the level of the courtyard, and they moved along the trench from which they opened.

Pacing his beat by the gateway was a solitary sentry.

“Stay here,” whispered Cherry; “he has seen me going backward and forward, and maybe he thinks I’m one of the official classes.”

He mounted the step leading up from the trench, and walked boldly toward the gateway.  Nearing the man, he turned to wave a greeting to an imaginary companion.  In reality he was looking to see whether there were any observers of the act which was to follow.

Watching him, they did not see exactly what had happened.  Suddenly the soldier doubled up like a jack-knife and fell.

Cherry bent over him, lifted the rifle and stood it against the wall, then, exhibiting remarkable strength for so small a man, he picked up the man in his arms and dropped him into the trench which terminated at the gateway.  They heard the thud of his body, and, breaking cover, they raced across the yard, joining Cherry, who led the way through the deep arch.

Now they saw the outer barrier.  It consisted of a formidable iron grille.  To their right was a gloomy building, which Malcolm judged was the bureau of the prison, to the left a high wall.  On either side of the gateway was a squat lodge, and before these were half a dozen soldiers, some leaning against the gate, some sitting in the doorway of the lodges, but all carrying rifles.

“This way,” said Cherry under his breath, and turned into the office.

The door of the room on his left was open, and into this they walked.  It was empty, but scarcely had they closed the door than there were footsteps outside.  Cherry, with a gun in each hand, a hard and ugly grin on his fat face, covered the door, but the footsteps passed.

There was a babble of voices outside and a rattle and creak of gates.  Malcolm crept to the one window which the office held (he guessed it was here that Cherry had written his “statement"), and peeped cautiously forth.

A big closed auto was entering the gate, and he pulled his head back.  Cherry was at his side.

“Somebody visiting ­a fellow high up,” whispered the latter hoarsely; “they’ll come in here, the guy we left in the cell told me he’d want this room.  Try that door!”

He pointed to a tall press and Malinkoff was there in a second.  The press was evidently used for the storage of stationery.  There was one shelf, half way up, laden with packages of paper, and Malinkoff lifted one end.  The other slipped and the packets dropped with a crash.  But the purring of the auto in the yard was noisy enough to drown the sound unless somebody was outside the door.

“Three can squeeze in ­you go first, Mr. Hay.”

It was more than a squeeze, it was a torture, but the door closed on them.

Malcolm had an insane desire to laugh, but he checked it at the sound of a voice ­for it was the voice of Boolba.

“I cannot stay very long, comrade,” he was saying as he entered the room, “but....”

The rest was a mumble.

“I will see that she is kept by herself,” said a strange voice, evidently of someone in authority at the prison.

Malcolm bit his lips to check the cry that rose.

“Irene!”

“...”  Boolba’s deep voice was again a rumble.

“Yes, comrade, I will bring her in ... let me lead you to a chair.”

He evidently went to the door and called, and immediately there was a tramp of feet.

“What does this mean, Boolba?”

Malcolm knew the voice ­he had heard it before ­and his relief was such that all sense of his own danger passed.

“Sophia Kensky,” Boolba was speaking now, “you are under arrest by order of the Soviet.”

“Arrest!” the word was screamed, “me ?”

“You are plotting against the Revolution, and your wickedness has been discovered,” said Boolba. “Matinshka! Little mama, it is ordered!”

“You lie!  You lie!” she screeched.  “You blind devil ­I spit on you!  You arrest me because you want the aristocrat Irene Yaroslav!  Blind pig!”

“Prekanzeno, dushinka! It is ordered, dear little soul,” murmured Boolba.  “I go back alone ­listen!  My auto is turning.  I go back alone, drushka, and who shall be my eyes now that my little mama is gone?”

They heard the chair pushed back as he rose and the scream and flurry as she leapt at him.

“Keep her away, little comrade,” roared Boolba.  “Keep her away ­I am blind; her father blinded me; keep her away!”

It was Cherry Bim who slipped first from the cupboard.

Under the menace of his guns the soldiers fell back.

“Auto Russki ­hold up the guard, Hay,” he muttered, and Malinkoff jumped through the doorway to the step of the big car in one bound.

Cherry held the room.  He spoke no Russian, but his guns were multi-lingual.  There was a shot outside before he fired three times into the room.  Then he fell back, slamming the door, and jumped into the car as it moved through the open gateway.

Malcolm was on one footboard, Malinkoff by the side of the chauffeur on the other.

So they rocked through the ill-paved streets of Moscow, and rushed the suburban barricade without mishap.