ould spend the evening at a theatre. This time the elderly
landlady of the house in which Mr. Kensky lodged informed him that her
guest was at home; and a few moments later Malcolm was ushered into the
presence of the old man.

Israel Kensky eyed his visitor keenly, taking him in from his carefully
tied dress-bow to the tips of his polished boots. It was an approving
glance, for Kensky, though he lived in one of the backwaters of
civilization; though his attitude to the privileged classes of the
world--in which category he placed Malcolm, did that young man but know
it--was deferential and even servile; had very definite views as to what
was, and was not, appropriate in his superior's attire.

He read through the letter which Malcolm had brought without a word,
and then:

"Pray sit down, Mr. Hay," he said in English. "I have been expecting
you. I had a letter from Mr. Tremayne."

Malcolm seated himself near the rough bench at which he cast curious
eyes. The paraphernalia of Kensky's hobby still lay upon its surface.

"You are wondering what an old Jew does to amuse himself, eh?" chuckled
Kensky. "Do you think we in South Russia do nothing but make bombs? If I
had not an aptitude for business," he said (he pronounced the word
"pizziness," and it was one of the few mispronunciations he made), "I
should have been a bookbinder."

"It is beautiful work," said Malcolm, who knew something of the art.

"It takes my mind from things," said Kensky, "and also it helps me--yes,
it helps me very much."

Malcolm did not ask him in what manner his craft might assist a
millionaire merchant, for in those days he had not heard of the "Book of
All-Power."

The conversation which followed travelled through awkward stages and
more awkward pauses. Kensky looked a dozen times at the clock, and on
the second occasion Malcolm, feeling uncomfortable, rose to go, but was
eagerly invited to seat himself again.

"You are going to Russia?"

"Yes."

"It is a strange country if you do not know it. And the Russians are
strange people. And to Kieff also! That is most important."

Malcolm did not inquire where the importance lay, and dismissed this as
an oblique piece of politeness on the other's part.

"I am afraid I am detaining you, Mr. Kensky. I merely came in to make
your acquaintance and shake hands with you," he said, rising, after yet
another anxious glance at the clock on the part of his host.

"No, no, no," protested Kensky.