Malcolm was the first to hear the sound of wheels on the roadway, and the party listened in silence till a low whistle sounded and their host darted out of the room.

“What was that?” asked Malinkoff.  “Somebody has come to the front door.”

A few minutes later Petroff staggered through the doorway, carrying the limp figure of Irene.  It was Malcolm who took the girl in his arms and laid her upon the sofa.

“She is not dead,” said a voice behind him.

He looked up; it was Israel Kensky.  The old man looked white and ill.  He took the glass of wine which Ivan brought him with a shaking hand, and wiped his beard as he looked down at the girl.  There was neither friendliness nor pity in his glance, only the curious tranquillity which comes to the face of a man who has done that which he set out to do.

“What of Boolba?” asked Petroff eagerly

“I think he lives,” said Kensky, and shook his head.  “I am too weak and too old a man to have killed him.  I put the cord about his neck and twisted it with a stick.  If he can loosen the cord he will live; if he cannot, he will die.  But I think he was too strong a man to die.”

“Did he know it was you?” asked Petroff.

Kensky shook his head.

“What is the hour?” he asked, and they told him that it was two o’clock.

“Sophia Kensky dies at four,” he said, in such a tone of unconcern that even Malinkoff stared at him.

“It is right that she should die,” said Kensky, and they marvelled that he, who had risked his life to save one of the class which had persecuted his people for hundreds of years, should speak in so matter-of-fact tones about the fate of his own blood.  “She betrayed her race and her father.  It is the old law of Israel, and it is a good law.  I am going to sleep.”

“Is there a chance that you have been followed?” asked Malinkoff, and Kensky pulled at his beard thoughtfully.

“I passed a watchman at the barricade, and he was awake ­that is the only danger.”

He beckoned to Malcolm, and, loth as the young man was to leave the girl’s side, now that she was showing some signs of recovering consciousness, he accompanied the old man from the room.

“Gospodar,” said Israel Kensky (it sounded strange to hear that old title), “once you carried a book for me.”

“I remember.”  Malcolm smiled in spite of himself.

“‘The Book of All-Power,’” repeated the Jew quietly.  “It is in my room, and I shall ask you to repeat your service.  That book I would give to the Grand Duchess, for I have neither kith nor child, and she has been kind to me.”

“But surely, Kensky,” protested Malcolm, “you, as an intelligent man, do not believe in the potency of books or charms of incantations?”

“I believe in the ‘Book of All-Power,’” said Kensky calmly.  “Remember, it is to become the property of the Grand Duchess Irene.  I do not think I have long to live,” he added.  “How my death will come I cannot tell, but it is not far off.  Will you go with me now and take the book?”

Malcolm hesitated.  He wanted to get back to the girl, but it would have been an ungracious act not to humour the old man, who had risked so much for the woman he loved.  He climbed the stairs to the little bedroom, and waited at the door whilst Kensky went in.  Presently the old man returned; the book was now stitched in a canvas wrapping, and Malcolm slipped the book into his pocket.  The very act recalled another scene which had been acted a thousand miles away, and, it seemed, a million years ago.

“Now let us go down,” said Kensky.

“Lord,” he asked, as Malcolm’s foot was on the stair, “do you love this young woman?”

It would have been the sheerest affectation on his part to have evaded the question.

“Yes, Israel Kensky,” he replied, “I love her,” and the old man bowed his head.

“You are two Gentiles, and there is less difference in rank than in race,” he said.  “I think you will be happy.  May the Gods of Jacob and of Abraham and of David rest upon you and prosper you.  Amen!”

Never had benediction been pronounced upon him that felt so real, or that brought such surprising comfort to the soul of Malcolm Hay.  He felt as if, in that dingy stairway, he had received the very guerdon of manhood, and he went downstairs spiritually strengthened, and every doubt in his mind set at rest.

The girl half rose from the couch as he came to her, and in her queer, impulsive way put out both her hands.  Five minutes before he might have hesitated; he might have been content to feel the warmth of her palms upon his.  But now he knelt down by her side, and, slipping one arm about her, drew her head to his shoulder.  He heard the long-drawn sigh of happiness, he felt her arm creep about his neck, and he forgot the world and all the evil and menace it held:  he forgot the grave Malinkoff, the interested Cherry Bim, still wearing his Derby hat on the back of his head, and girt about with the weapons of his profession.  He forgot everything except that the world was worth living for.  There lay in his arms a fragrant and a beautiful thing.

It was Petroff who put an end to the little scene.

“I have sent food into the wood for you,” he said, “and my man has come back to tell me that your chauffeur is waiting by the car.  He has all the petrol that he requires, and I do not think you should delay too long.”

The girl struggled to a sitting position, and looked with dismay at her scarlet bridal dress.

“I cannot go like this,” she said.

“I have your trunk in the house, Highness,” said Petroff, and the girl jumped up with a little cry of joy.

“I had forgotten that,” she said.

She had forgotten also that she was still weak, for she swayed and would have stumbled, had not Malcolm caught her.

“Go quickly, Highness,” said Petroff urgently.  “I do not think it would be safe to stay here ­safe for you or for Kensky.  I have sent one of my men on a bicycle to watch the Moscow road.”

“Is that necessary?” asked Malinkoff.  “Are you suspect?”

Petroff nodded.

“If Boolba learns that Kensky passed this way, he will guess that it is to me that he came.  I was in the service of the Grand Duke, and if it were not for the fact that a former workman of mine is now Assistant Minister of Justice in Petrograd, I should have been arrested long ago.  If Boolba finds Israel Kensky here, or the Grand Duchess, nothing can save me.  My only hope is to get you away before there is a search.  Understand, little general,” he said earnestly, “if you had not the car, I would take all risks and let you stay until you were found.”

“That seems unnecessary,” said Malinkoff.  “I quite agree.  What do you say, Kensky?”

The old man, who had followed Malcolm down the stairs, nodded.

“I should have shot Boolba,” he said thoughtfully, “but it would have made too much noise.”

“You should have used the knife, little father,” said Petroff, but Kensky shook his head.

“He wears chain armour under his clothes,” he said.  “All the commissaries do.”

Preparations for the journey were hurriedly made.  The girl’s trunk had proved a veritable storehouse, and she came down in a short tweed skirt and coat, her glorious hair hidden under a black tam o’ shanter, and Malcolm could scarcely take his eyes from her.

“You have a coat,” said the practical Malinkoff.  “That is good ­you may need it.”

Crash!

It was the sound of a rifle butt against the door which struck them dumb.  Muffled by the thick wood, the voice of the knocker yet came clearly:  “Open in the name of the Revolution!”

Petroff blinked twice, and on his face was a look as though he could not believe his ears.  The girl shrank to Malcolm’s side, and Malinkoff stroked his beard softly.  Only Cherry Bim seemed to realize the necessities of the moment, and he pulled both guns simultaneously and laid them noiselessly on the table before him.

“Open in the name of the Revolution!”

A hiss from Kensky brought them round.  He beckoned them through the door by which they had made their original entry to the room, and pointed to the light.  He gripped Petroff by the shoulder.

“Upstairs to your bedroom, friend,” he said.  “Put on your night-shirt and talk to them through the window.”

Down the two passages they passed and came to the little door, which Kensky unchained and opened.  He put his lips close to Malinkoff’s ears.

“Do you remember the way you came?” he asked, and the general nodded and led the way.

Last but one came Cherry Bim, a ’45 in each hand.  There were no soldiers in view at the back of the house, but Malinkoff could hear their feet on some unknown outside road, and realized that the house was in process of being surrounded, and had the man who knocked at the door waited until this encirclement had been completed, there would have been no chance of escape.

They struck the main road, and found the cart track leading to the wood, and none challenged them.  There was no sound from the house, and apparently their flight had not been discovered.

Kensky brought up the rear in spite of Cherry’s frenzied injunctions, delivered in the four words of Russian which he knew, to get a move on.  They had reached the fringe of the wood when the challenge came.  Out of the shadow rode a horseman, and brought his charger across the path.

“Halt!” he cried.

The party halted, all except Cherry, who stepped from the path and moved swiftly forward, crouching low, to give the sentry no background.

“Who is that?” asked the man on the horse.  “Speak, or I’ll fire!”

He had unslung his carbine, and they heard the click of the bolt as the breech opened and closed.

“We are friends, little father,” said Malinkoff.

“Give me your names,” said the sentry, and Malinkoff recited with glib ease a list of Russian patronymics.

“That is a lie,” said the man calmly.  “You are boorjoos ­I can tell by your voices,” and without further warning he fired into the thick of them.

The second shot which came from the night followed so quickly upon the first that for the second time in like circumstances the girl thought only one had been fired.  But the soldier on the horse swayed and slid to the earth before she knew what had happened.

“Go right ahead,” said the voice of Cherry Bim.

He had caught the bridle of the frightened horse, and had drawn him aside.  They quickened their steps and came up to the car, which the thoughtful chauffeur had already cranked up at the sound of the shots.

“Where is Kensky?” asked Malcolm suddenly, “did you see him, Cherry?”

A pause.

“Why, no,” said Cherry, “I didn’t see him after the lamented tragedy.”

“We can’t leave the old man,” said Malcolm.

“Wait,” said the little gun-man.  “I will go back and look for him.”

Five minutes, ten passed and still there was no sign or sound of Israel Kensky or of Cherry.  Then a shot broke the stillness of the night, and another and another.

“Two rifles and one revolver,” said Malinkoff.  “Get into the car, Highness.  Are you ready, Peter?”

There was another shot and then a fusillade.  Then came slow footsteps along the cart track, and the sound of a man’s windy breathing.

“Take him, somebody,” said Cherry.

Malinkoff lifted the inanimate figure from Cherry’s shoulder and carried him into the car.  A voice from the darkness shouted a command, there was a flash of fire and the “zip” of a bullet.

“Let her go, Percy,” said Cherry, and blazed away with both guns into the darkness.

He leapt for the footboard and made it by a miracle, and only once did they hear him cry as if in pain.

“Are you hit?” asked Malcolm anxiously.

“Naw!” drawled his voice jerkily, for the road hereabouts was full of holes, and even speech was as impossible as even riding.  “Naw,” he said.  “I nearly lost my hat.”

He spoke only once again that night, except to refuse the offer to ride inside the car.  He preferred the footboard, he said, and explained that as a youth it had been his ambition to be a fireman.

“I wonder,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence of nearly an hour.

“What do you wonder?” asked Malinkoff, who sat nearest to the window, where Cherry stood.

“I wonder what happened to that boy on the bicycle?”