, but I had a notion that Russian refugee was
nearer the mark, though hitherto I had never seen any suspicious
characters hanging around his place.

But if this picturesque stranger wasn't a Russian Jew, I never saw one.
He certainly was no burglar or sneak-thief, or he would have bolted when
I opened the door. The key with which he had attempted to gain ingress
to my flat was doubtless a pass-key to Cassavetti's rooms. He seemed a
queer person to be in possession of such a thing, but that was
Cassavetti's affair, and not mine.

"Here, you'd better have your key," I called, jerking it out of my lock.
It was an ordinary Yale key, with a bit of string tied to it, and a
fragment of dirty red stuff attached to that.

The stranger had paused, and was clinging to the rail, making a queer
gasping sound; and now, as I spoke, he suddenly collapsed in a heap, his
dishevelled gray head resting against the balustrade.

I guessed I'd scared him pretty badly, and as I looked down at him I
thought for a moment he was dead.

I went up the stairs, and rang Cassavetti's bell. There was no answer,
and I tried the key. It fitted right enough, but the rooms were empty.

What was to be done? Common humanity forbade me to leave the poor wretch
lying there; and to summon the housekeeper from the basement meant
traversing eight flights of stairs, for the block was an old-fashioned
one, and there was no elevator. Besides, I reckoned that Cassavetti
would prefer not to have the housekeeper interfere with his queer
visitor.

I ran back, got some whiskey and a bowl of water, and started to give
first aid to my patient.

I saw at once what was wrong,--sheer starvation, nothing less. I tore
open the ragged shirt, and stared aghast at the sight that met my eyes.
The emaciated chest was seamed and knotted with curious scars. I had
seen similar scars before, and knew there was but one weapon in the
world--the knout--capable of making them. The man was a Russian then,
and had been grievously handled; some time back as I judged, for the
scars were old.

I dashed water on his face and breast, and poured some of the whiskey
down his throat. He gasped, gurgled, opened his eyes and stared at me.
He looked like a touzled old vulture that has been badly scared.

"Buck up, daddy," I said cheerfully, forgetting he wouldn't understand
me. I helped him to his feet, and felt in my trouser pocket for a coin.
It was food he wanted, but I had none to give h