along the flagged pavement, open the gate
and disappear into the darkened street.

Israel Kensky went back to his chair, stirred the fire and settled down
to a long wait, his lined face grave and anxious.

The woman had turned to the right and had walked swiftly to the end of
the street. The name of that street, or its pronunciation, were beyond
her. She neither spoke English, nor was she acquainted with the
topography of the district in which she found herself. She slowed her
pace as she reached the main road and a man came out of the shadows to
meet her.

"Is it you, little mother?" he asked in Russian.

"Thank God you're here! Who is this?" asked Sophia breathlessly.

"Boris Yakoff," said the other, "I have been waiting for an hour, and it
is very cold."

"I could not get away before," she said as she fell in beside him. "The
old man was working with his foolery and it was impossible to get him to
go to bed. Once or twice I yawned, but he took no notice."

"Why has he come to London?" asked her companion. "It must be something
important to bring him away from his money-bags."

To this the woman made no reply. Presently she asked:

"Do we walk? Is there no droski or little carriage?"

"Have patience, have patience!" grinned the man good humouredly. "Here
in London we do things in grand style. We have an auto-car for you. But
it was not wise to bring it so close to your house, little mother. The
old man----"

"Oh, finish with the old man," she said impatiently; "do not forget that
I am with him all the day."

The antipathy between father and daughter was so well known that the man
made no apology for discussing the relationship with that frankness
which is characteristic of the Russian peasant. Nor did Sophia Kensky
resent the questions of a stranger, nor hesitate to unburden herself of
her grievances. The "auto-car" proved to be a very common-place
taxi-cab, though a vehicle of some luxury to Yakoff.

"They say he practises magic," said that garrulous man, as the taxi got
on its way; "also that he bewitches you."

"That is a lie," said the woman indifferently: "he frightens me
sometimes, but that is because I have here"--she tapped her
forehead--"a memory which is not a memory. I seem to remember something
just at the end of a thread, and I reach for it, and lo! it is gone!"

"That is magic," said Yakoff gravely. "Evidently he practises his spells
upon you. Tell me, Sophia Kensky, is it true that yo