kmen had
wearied of their good intent and had left off when their labours were
half finished, which gave the building the gruesome appearance of having
been half skinned. Flush with the four sides of the square was an open
concrete trench, approached at intervals by flights of half a dozen
stone steps leading to this alley-way.

Malcolm Hay was pushed down one of these, hurried along the alley-way,
passing a number of mailed iron doors, and as many barred windows, and
was halted before one of the doors whilst the warder who all the time
smoked a cigar, produced a key. The door was unlocked, and Hay was
thrust in. Malinkoff followed. The door slammed behind them, and they
heard the "click-clock" of the steel lock shooting to its socket.

The room was a medium-sized apartment, innocent of furniture save for a
table in the centre of the room and a bench which ran round the walls.
Light came from a small window giving a restricted view of the courtyard
and a barred transom above the doorway. An oblong slit of ground glass
behind which was evidently an electric globe served for the night.

There were two occupants of the room, who looked up, one--a grimy,
dishevelled priest--blankly, the other with the light of interest in his
eyes.

He sat in his shirt-sleeves, his coat being rolled up to serve as a
pillow. Above the "bed" hung a Derby hat--an incongruous object. He was
short, stout, and fresh coloured, with a startling black moustache
elaborately curled at the ends and two grey eyes that were lined around
with much laughter. He walked slowly to the party and held out his hand
to Malcolm.

"Welcome to the original Bughouse," he said, and from his accent it was
impossible to discover whether he was American or English. "On behalf of
self an' partner, we welcome you to Bughouse Lodge. When do you go to
the chair--he's due to-day," he jerked his thumb at the crooning priest.
"I can't say I'm sorry. So far as I am concerned he's been dead ever
since they put him here."

Malcolm recognized the little man in a flash. It was his acquaintance of
London.

"You don't remember me," smiled Malcolm, "but what is your particular
crime?"

The little man's face creased with laughter.

"Shootin' up Tcherekin," he said tersely, and Malinkoff's eyebrows rose.

"You're--Beem--is that how you pronounce it?"

"Bim," said the other, "B-I-M. Christian name Cherry--Cherry Bim; see
the idea? Named after the angels. Say, when I was a ki