LITMIR.BIZ

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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 Café 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

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