ng one way or the other toward the Soviet
Government. But Malinkoff would be a marked man, under suspicion all the
time. Before the office of the Commissary was a sentry without rifle. He
sat at a table which completely blocked the doorway, except for about
eight inches at one side. He inquired the business of the visitors, took
their names and handed them to a soldier, and with a sideways jerk of
his head invited them to squeeze past him into the bureau.

CHAPTER XI

THE COMMISSARY WITH THE CROOKED NOSE

There were a dozen men in the room in stained military overcoats and red
armlets. One, evidently an officer, who carried a black portfolio under
his arm, was leaning against the panelled wall, smoking and snapping his
fingers to a dingy white terrier that leapt to his repeated invitations.

At the table, covered with documents, were two people, the man and the
woman.

She, sprawling indolently forward, her head upon her arm, her strong
brown face turned to the man, was obviously a Jewess. The papers were
streaked and greasy where her thick black ringlets had rested, and the
ashes of her cigarette lay in little untidy heaps on the table.

The man was burly, with a great breadth of shoulder and big rough hands.
But it was his face which arrested the feet of Malcolm and brought him
to a sudden halt the moment he came near enough to see and recognize the
Commissary.

It was not by his bushy red beard nor the stiff, upstanding hair, but
by the crooked nose, that he recognized Boolba, sometime serving-man to
the Grand Duke Yaroslav. Malcolm, looking at the sightless eyes, felt
his spine go creepy.

Boolba lifted his head sharply at the sound of an unfamiliar footfall.

"Who is this?" he asked. "Sophia Kensky, you who are my eyes, tell me
who is this?"

"Oh, a boorjoo," said the woman lazily.

"A foreigner too--who are you, boorjoo?"

"A Britisher," said Malcolm.

Boolba lifted his chin and turned his face at the voice.

"A Britisher," he repeated slowly. "The man on the oil-fields. Tell me
your name."

"Hay--Malcolm Hay," said Malcolm, and Boolba nodded.

His face was like a mask and he expressed no emotion.

"And the other?"

"Malinkoff!" snapped the voice at Malcolm's side, and Boolba nodded.

"Commanding an army--I remember. You drive a cab, comrade. Are there any
complaints against this man?"

He turned his face to Sophia Kensky, and she shook her head.

"Are there any complaints agains