Royal House. Peter the
Great lived here."

Luck was with them, for they had not gone far before they heard a voice
bellowing a mournful song, and came up with its owner, a worker in the
silk mills (they had long since ceased to work) who was under the
influence of methylated spirit--a favourite tipple since vodka had been
ukased out of existence.

"Ivan Petroff, son of Ivan?" he hiccoughed.

"Yes, my little dove, it is there. He is a boorjoo and an aristocrat,
and there is no Czar and no God!--_prikanzerio_--it is ordered by the
Soviet!..."

And he began to weep

"No Czar and no God! Long live the Revolution! Evivo! No blessed saints
and no Czar! And I was of the Rasholnik!..."

They left him weeping by the roadside.

"The Rasholniks are the dissenters of Russia--this village was a hotbed
of them, but they've gone the way of the rest," said Malinkoff sadly.

The house they approached was a big wooden structure ornamented with
perfectly useless cupolas and domes, so that Malcolm thought at first
that this was one of the innumerable churches in which the village
abounded.

There was a broad flight of wooden stairs leading to the door, but this
they avoided. A handful of gravel at a likely-looking upper window
seemed a solution. The response was immediate. Though no light appeared,
the window swung open and a voice asked softly:

"Who is that?"

"We are from Irene," answered Malcolm in the same tone.

The window closed, and presently they heard a door unfastened and
followed the sound along the path which ran close to the house. It was a
small side door that was opened, and Malcolm led the way through.

Their invisible host closed the door behind them, and they heard the
clink of a chain.

"If you have not been here before, keep straight on, touching the wall
with your right hand. Where it stops turn sharply to the right," said
the unknown rapidly.

They followed his directions, and found the branch passage.

"Wait," said the voice.

The man passed them. They heard him turn a handle.

"Straight ahead you will find the door."

They obeyed, and their conductor struck a match and lit an oil lamp.
They were in the long room--they guessed that by the glow of the closed
stove they had seen as they entered.

The windows were heavily shuttered and curtained, and even the door was
hidden under a thick portiere. The man who had brought them in was
middle-aged and poorly dressed, but then this was a time w