ing her little tricks of manner or gesture.

In the end he laughed himself into a sane condition of mind, ate a
hearty supper, and went to bed to dream that Serganoff was pursuing him
with a hammer in his hand, and that the Grand Duchess was sitting in a
box wildly applauding the efforts of her homicidal relative.

The next afternoon Malcolm Hay was packing, with the remainder of his
belongings, a few articles he had purchased in London. Amongst these was
a small and serviceable Colt revolver, and he stood balancing this in
the palm of his hand, uncertain as to whether it would not be better to
retain his weapon until after his present adventure. Twice he put it
into his portmanteau and twice took it out again, and finally, blushing
at the act, he slipped the weapon into his hip-pocket.

He felt theatrical and cheap in doing so. He told himself that he was
investing a very common-place measure of precaution taken by old Israel
Kensky, who was probably in the secret police, to protect his protegee,
with an importance and a romance which it did not deserve. He went down
to his post that night, feeling horribly self-conscious. This time he
kept on the same side of the street as that on which the club was
situated.

His watch was rewarded by events of greater interest than had occurred
on the previous night. He had not been on duty half an hour before two
men walked rapidly from the end of the street and passed him so closely
that he could not make any mistake as to the identity of one. Had he not
been able to recognize him, his voice would have instantly betrayed his
identity, for, as they passed, the shorter of the two was talking.

"I'm one of those guys who don't believe in starving to death in a
delicatessen store----"

Malcolm looked after the pair in amazement. It was the little man whom
he had befriended in the courtyard at Charing Cross station. Other
people drifted through the door in ones and twos, and then a man came
walking smartly across the street, betraying the soldier at every
stride. Malcolm turned and strolled in his direction.

There was no mistaking him either, though he was muffled up to the chin.
With his tight-waisted greatcoat, a glimpse of an olive face with two
piercing dark eyes, which flashed an inquiring glance as they
passed--there was no excuse for error. It was Colonel Prince Serganoff
beyond a doubt.

A quarter of an hour later came the real shock of the evening. A girl
was almost