t this man, Sophia?" he repeated.

"None that I know. He is an aristocrat and a friend of the Romanoffs."

"Huh!" The grunt sounded like a note of disappointment. "What do you
want?"

"The stranger wishes permission to remain in Moscow until he can find a
train to the north," said Malinkoff.

Boolba made no reply. He sat there, his elbows on the table, his fingers
twining and untwining the thick red hair of his beard.

"Where does he sleep to-night?" he asked after awhile.

"He sleeps in my stable, near the Vassalli Prospekt," said Malinkoff.

Boolba turned to the woman, who was lighting a new cigarette from the
end of the old one, and said something in a low, growling tone.

"Do as you wish, my little pigeon," she said audibly.

Again his hand went to his beard and his big mouth opened in meditation.
Then he said curtly:

"Sit down."

There was no place to sit, and the two men fell back amongst the
soldiers.

Again the two at the table consulted, and then Sophia Kensky called a
name. The man in a faded officer's uniform came forward, his big black
portfolio in his hand, and this he laid on the table, opening the flap
and taking out a sheaf of papers.

"Read them to me, Sophia," said Boolba. "Read their names."

He groped about on the table and found first a rubber stamp and then a
small, flat ink-pad. Sophia lifted the first of the papers and spelt out
the names.

"Mishka Sasanoff," she said, and the man growled.

"An upstart woman and very ugly," he said. "I remember her. She used to
whip her servants. Tell me, Sophia, my life, what has she done now?"

"Plotted to destroy the Revolution," said the woman.

"Huh!" grunted the man, as he brought his rubber stamp to the paper,
passing it across to the waiting officer, who replaced it in his
portfolio. "And the next?"

"Paul Geslkin," she said and passed the document to him. "Plotting to
overthrow the Revolution."

"A boorjoo, a tricky young man, in league with the priests," he said,
and again his stamp came down upon the paper, and again the paper went
across the table into the portfolio of the officer.

The soldiers about Malcolm and his friend had edged away, and they were
alone.

"What are these?" whispered Malcolm.

"Death warrants," replied Malinkoff laconically, and for the second time
a cold chill ran down Malcolm's spine.

Name after name were read out, and the little rubber stamp, which
carried death to one and sorrow to so many, th