To JOAN

This souvenir of one of the most difficult years of my life, which by our united efforts has turned out to be one of the most successful, and, thanks to her, has certainly been one of the happiest.

I — A Cry for Help

The Duke de Richleau and Mr. Simon Aron had gone in to dinner at eight o’clock, but coffee was not served till after ten.

Aron had eaten sparingly of each well-chosen course, and to one who made a hobby of such things the wines had proved a special pleasure. Since their mutual friend Richard Eaton had brought them together, he had dined on many occasions with De Richleau at his flat.

A casual observer might have considered it a strange friendship, but despite the difference in age and race, appearance and tradition, the two had many tastes in common.

Both the young English Jew and the elderly French exile loved beauty in its many forms, and could linger happily over a jade carving or a page of prose. They had also developed a pleasant rivalry in producing for each other great wines, fine food, and well-matured cigars.

Aron accepted a long Hoyo de Monterrey from the cedar cabinet which the Duke’s man presented to him, and his dark eyes flickered towards his host.

During dinner the impression had grown upon him that there was some special reason why the Duke had asked him to dine on this occasion. His intuition had not deceived him. De Richleau exhaled the first cloud of fragrant smoke from another of those long Hoyo’s which were his especial pride, and drew from his pocket a dirty piece of paper, which he flicked across the table. “My friend,” he said, raising his grey eyebrows a little, a slightly cynical smile on his thin lips, “I should be interested to have your opinion on this curious document.”

Simon Aron unfolded the piece of grimy paper. It had light blue rulings upon it, and was covered with a pencil scrawl; it might well have been a page torn from an exercise-book. Simon’s full mouth broadened into a wide grin, and, with a sudden gesture peculiar to himself, he gave a little nervous laugh, stooping his bird-like head with its pronounced Semitic nose to the hand which held his long cigar.

“Well, I’ll tell you, I’m no good at puzzles,” he grinned, “never done a cross-word in my life — but I’ll see what I can do.” As he spoke he took a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles from his pocket and began to study the crumpled paper, reading it out slowly as he did so.

“Dear Comrade,

Since I left the New York centre I have been investigating the possibilities of mineral wealth in this country.

There is one mine containing valuable deposits which has been closed down for a number of years, and I had hoped to get it going. Unfortunately, before I could do so, I was sent to the place where Comrade Eatonov was for a short time.

Work at the London centre must be almost at a standstill with the present reactionary Government in power, and if my transfer from here could be arranged for, I should badly need skilled assistance at the mine, so if you could come over, your help would be most welcome.

I would like to have met you in Moscow, but that will be impossible now. You can get all the information regarding the mine at Jack Straw’s. If little Simonoff is still with you, perhaps both of you could come.

I certainly need help pretty badly in my present position — it’s too much for me alone.

Your old comrade and fellow-worker,

Tsarderynski.”

Simon Aron shook his head with a little wriggle of his narrow shoulders. “How did it come to you?” he inquired.

The Duke passed over a flimsy envelope with which he had been toying. “Just so, my friend,” he said, lightly, “you will note that this bears a Finnish stamp, and was posted in Helsingfors.”

Simon examined the writing on the envelope. It was thin and angular — very different from the pencil scrawl of the letter — and bore the legend:

Monsieur Ricillou,

No. I Maison Arrol,

Londres,

Gde. Bretagne.

“I — er — suppose it’s not a mistake?” ventured Simon, thoughtfully. “I mean, it is meant for you?”

The Duke ran the tips of his fingers down his lean, handsome face. “At first I was inclined to suppose that it had been sent here in error, but now I am convinced that it was intended for me.”

“Wonder it ever got here — addressed like this!”

“Yes, the name misspelt — also Errol House, no mention of Curzon Street, or Mayfair, or any district number. But tell me — who do you think it is from?”

“Tsarderynski,” Simon murmured, “don’t know — never heard of him; looks like a letter from one Bolshie agent to another, on the face of it”

“May I suggest that you endeavour to translate the name?” The grey eyes of almost piercing brilliance, which gave character to De Richleau’s face, lit up.

— “‘Tsar,’ that’s Caesar — King,” Simon Aron began,

“‘de’ of, or from — ‘ ryn’ — ah! now wait a minute — this is interesting, very interesting —” He sat forward suddenly and began nodding his narrow head up and down. “Of course — this is from our old friend Rex Van Ryn!”

His host smiled encouragement.

Simon read the letter through again. “And Rex is in a muddle — a really nasty muddle,” he added jerkily.

“Exactly the conclusion I had arrived at,” De Richleau agreed. “Now what do you make of the rest of the letter?”

For some little time Simon did not reply. In his left hand he slowly revolved the bowl-shaped glass that held some of the Duke’s wonderful old brandy, in his right he held the long evenly burning cigar. For the moment his thoughts had left the beautiful room with its lovely old panelling, its four famous pictures by great masters, and the heavy carpet which seemed to deaden every sound.

He was thinking of Rex Van Ryn — that great hulking American with the ugly face and the enormous sense of fun. He could see Rex now, in the little sitting-room of the house in Trevor Square, which he always took when he came to London. He could hear him dilating on the question of drinks — “Never give a guy a large cocktail, but plenty of ’em — make ’em dry and drink ’em quick — come on, boys — it takes a fourth to make an appetite — here’s to crime!” — and now this strange letter out of Russia. What sort of wild escapade could have taken Rex to such a place? What kind of trouble was he up against? For Simon had not the least doubt that he was in trouble, and Simon was worried — he was very fond of Rex.

De Richleau meanwhile sat silent at the head of the table, a striking and unusual figure. He was a slim, delicate-looking man, somewhat above middle height, with slender, fragile hands and greying hair; but there was no trace of weakness in his fine distinguished face. His aquiline nose, broad forehead, and grey devil’s eyebrows might well have replaced those of the cavalier in the Van Dyke that gazed down from the opposite wall. Instead of the conventional black, he wore a claret-coloured Vicuna smoking-suit, with silk lapels and braided fastenings; this touch of colour increased his likeness to the portrait. He watched Simon with a slight smile on his firm mouth. He knew the cautious, subtle brain that lay behind the sloping forehead of his guest too well to hurry his deliberations.

“Let’s go through it carefully,” said Simon at last “What’s all this business about a mine? I didn’t know that Rex ever trained as a mining engineer.”

“Nor I,” agreed the Duke. “What do you make of the passage about Eatonov?”

Simon’s dark eyes flickered over his spectacles at the Duke.

“That’s where the muddle comes in — Eatonov is Richard Eaton, of course — and poor Richard went to Brixton! Rex is in prison — that’s what it seems to me.”

“Without a doubt,” De Richleau nodded, “that reference to Eaton was a clever way of putting it — no ordinary person could understand it, but he would know that, to us, it would be abundantly clear. If one needs further confirmation, one has only to note the suggestion about his transfer being arranged for, and that ‘it will be impossible for him to come to Moscow now to meet us’; he is somewhere in Soviet Russia, but he is not a free man.”

“The letter was posted in Finland,” Simon remarked.

“Certainly.” The Duke pushed the old brandy across the table to his guest. “It looks as if the letter was smuggled out of Russia, evidently Rex was afraid that his messenger might be searched at the frontier, and so made him commit the address to memory. From the envelope I doubt if the man could even speak English. The whole thing, with its talk of centres, comrades, and reactionary Governments, is obviously designed to throw dust in the eyes of any Soviet official.”

“Who is Jack Straw? I don’t — er — understand that bit at all. The only Jack Straw’s that I’ve ever heard of is the Castle on the Heath.”

“Jack Straw’s Castle — what is that?” The Duke looked puzzled.

“An inn on Hampstead Heath — place where Dick Turpin, the highwayman, used to make his headquarters about a hundred and fifty years ago — at least,” Simon corrected himself, “I’m not certain that isn’t ‘The Spaniards’.”

“What can an inn on Hampstead Heath have to do with a mine in Russia? There must be some other explanation.”

“Perhaps,” Simon hesitated, “it is the meeting-place of some secret Bolshevik society.”

“But, my friend, if Rex has fallen foul of the Ogpu, surely they would be the last people to give us any information about him?”

“It might be a society of counter-revolutionaries, and Rex has been arrested for being in touch with them.”

“If you are right, Rex may have gone to Russia on behalf of these émigrés, and been arrested on that account — if so, the mine may be anything of value — perhaps even secret information.”

“Well — I’ll tell you,” said Simon, “I don’t like it a little bit — look at the last sentence in that letter — ‘ I certainly need help pretty badly in my present position, it’s too much for me alone.’”

The Duke gently laid the long blue-grey ash of his cigar in the onyx ash tray. “There is not a doubt,” he said, slowly, “our good friend Van Ryn is a prisoner in Soviet Russia — Rex is one of the bravest men I have ever known, he would never have written that last paragraph unless he were in dire distress. It is a cry for help. Where he may be in that vast territory which constitutes the Union of Soviet Peoples, it will be no easy task to discover. He has found somebody — a fellow prisoner, perhaps — who was about to leave the country, and persuaded him to take this letter in the hope that it would get through. The chances were all against it reaching it’s destination, but as it has done so — the point is now — what are we to do?”

Simon Aron leant forward and laughed his short, jerky laugh into his hand. “Well — er — I hate to say so,” he laughed again, “but it seems to me that you and I have got to take a trip to Russia.”

II — A Plan of Campaign

“Now this,” said the Duke, “is indeed a pleasant surprise. I thought you might bring fresh light to bear upon some aspect of this affair — but to have your actual help was more than I had dared to hope.”

“Very fond of Rex,” said Simon briefly.

“I know,” De Richleau nodded, “but our situations are so different. My life is one of leisure — in fact, now that old age is creeping upon me, and more and more pursuits become barred to a man of my years — I find it increasingly difficult to pass my time in an interesting and agreeable manner. You, on the contrary, as a young partner in a great financial house, have always to be on the end of the eternal telephone. You even grudge a single afternoon spent away from your office in the City. I had imagined that it would be quite impossible for you to get away.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I was — er — thinking of taking a holiday — going down to Monte for a few days — might just as well go to Russia!”

De Richleau smiled rather grimly. “I fear that this will be a very different kind of holiday, my friend. However, we will not talk of that. It is some days since I received this letter, so I have already made certain inquiries and preparations.”

“Tell me,” said Simon, shortly.

“First I cabled to my old friend, the President of the Chesapeake Banking and Trust Corporation — Van Ryn the elder — for news of Rex. Let us go into the other room, and I will show you his reply.” As he spoke the Duke left the table and threw open the door for his guest.

“Yes, I’d like to see that — I’ll take my brandy with me, if you don’t mind.” Carrying his glass, Simon Aron led the way into the big library.

It was not so much the size or decoration which made this room in the Curzon Street flat so memorable for those who had been privileged to visit it, but the unique collection of rare and beautiful objects which it contained. A Tibetan Buddha seated upon the Lotus; bronze figurines from Ancient Greece. Beautifully chased rapiers of Toledo steel and Moorish pistols inlaid with turquoise and gold, Ikons from Holy Russia, set with semi-precious stones, and curiously carved ivories from the East. The walls were lined shoulder-high with books, but above them hung lovely old colour-prints, and a number of priceless historical documents and maps.

De Richleau went over to his desk and, taking a few flimsy sheets from a drawer, handed them silently to Aron.

Simon read out the contents of the cable:

“Rex very unsettled since return from Europe last summer — went lone hunting expedition in Rockies August September — went South America October — stayed West Indies on return trip — went Russia late November against my wish ostensibly investigate commercial conditions properly accredited by me — letter received dated December fourth stating safe arrival no news since — became worried end December put inquiry through Embassy — Rex left Moscow December eleventh destination unknown — all efforts to trace movements so far unavailing — spare no expense cable any news immediately now very anxious Channock Van Ryn.”

Simon nodded. “Expensive cable that!”

The Duke crossed his slender legs, as he settled himself comfortably in an arm-chair. “That I think would hardly matter to Channock Van Ryn, and Rex, you will remember, is his only son. I am not surprised that he is anxious, but if there was ever any doubt about the message having come from our young friend, I think this cable places the matter beyond dispute.”

“Umm,” Simon nodded. “Now let’s see — today’s the 24th of January, isn’t it? At any rate, it’s nearly seven weeks since he disappeared from Moscow.”

“Exactly, but there is one comfort: we know at least that he has not been knocked on the head in some low quarter of the town and his body flung into the river — or pushed under the ice, rather — for, of course, the Moskawa River will be frozen over now. He must have fallen foul of the secret police in some way — our young friend is nothing if not inquisitive — and I believe there are very definite restrictions as to what visitors to the Soviet may, or may not, see during their stay.”

“Wait a moment!” Simon slowly revolved his brandy-glass, holding it in the palm of his hand to warm the spirit through the thin transparent glass — “Wait a minute,” he repeated, “that cable said ‘left Moscow for an unknown destination’!”

“Yes,” agreed the Duke, “and during the last few days I have been gathering information regarding other places to which he may have gone. I think you would be surprised at the knowledge which I now possess of the towns and railways of the Soviet Republic.”

“How — er — did you set about it?” Simon asked curiously.

“The obvious way, my friend.” De Richleau’s clever face broke into a sudden smile. “I paid a visit to the London office of the ‘Intourist’, which as you may know, is the official travel bureau of the Soviet. For some time now, Stalin and the present group of Kommissars have thought it desirable that people of the anti-Bolshevik states should be encouraged to visit Russia. For one thing they spend money which the Soviet badly needs — for another, they are shown certain aspects of the Bolshevik State, such as the great Metalurgical works, and scientifically run agricultural centres, of which the Kommissars are justly proud. It is hoped that they will return to their own countries with a glowing picture of the benefits of Communism for the masses.”

“But you can’t just take a ticket and go to Russia, can you?” Simon spoke doubtfully.

“Almost — but not quite, they have been very clever.” The Duke spread out his slim hands. “You wish to go to Russia? Good! To what part would you like to go — Leningrad, Moscow, Keiff, Odessa, the Crimea, the Caucassus? Would you like to stay four days — or four weeks? To start in the north, or in the south? All you have to do is to tell — us — The ‘Intourist’. We will be your servants in a country where there are servants no longer. Here are all sorts of itineraries, all ready planned. They can be varied to suit your purpose. Is it the treasures of the old world, that we have so carefully preserved, which you wish to see — or the marvellous industrial developments, by which Russia will lead the world in a few years’ time? Let us plan your journey for you. We will take your railway tickets in advance, and provide you with hotel accommodation during your stay. Of both there are four grades; and which you choose depends only upon what you wish to pay. Good meals will be provided for you, and the prices of the tours include not only entrance to all museums and sights of interest, but to the theatres and places of amusement as well. What is that? You fear you may have difficulty with the language? But not at all! An interpreter will be placed at your disposal — You do not wish to go with a crowd of people like a tourist? Certainly not! You shall have an interpreter entirely to yourself — there is no extra charge. You see, my friend —” Once more the Duke spread out his elegant hands as he finished his word-picture of the persuasive advertising agent of the Bolsheviks.

“Clever,” Simon said softly. “Oh, very clever!”

“Exactly.” De Richleau smiled again. “And that little Bolshevik interpreter will be your guide, philosopher, and friend, from the time you arrive until the time you leave this very interesting country. You can secure neither railway tickets nor hotel accommodation without consulting him, and although this excellent ‘Intourist’ will cheerfully get your passport visa for you to enter the Soviet — should you by chance desire to change your plans, and forget to inform the little interpreter — you will find it quite impossible to secure the necessary visa to get out.”

“I see.” Simon laughed his little nervous laugh. “And that’s where the fun begins. Supposing we wanted to get off the beaten track — to some place that the itineraries don’t mention — what happens then?”

“That,” said the Duke, slowly, “is a different matter. I talked vaguely to the polite young man at the bureau of visiting Archangel. He pointed out that the port would be frozen over at this time of year; an uninteresting place to visit, he seemed to think. I spoke of other towns not mentioned in the official guide — and the winter scenery in the Urals. He said that there would be no suitable accommodation. In fact, he was not helpful in any way.”

“Have you any idea what conditions are like out there now?”

De Richleau shrugged. “It is difficult to say — the reports of people to whom I have spoken vary so greatly. There is little doubt that the towns are overcrowded and food scarce. Everyone has to surrender thirty-five per cent of their wages to assist in the accomplishment of the Five Year Plan. The whole population is pauperized to this one end. Some say that the masses will not stand the strain, and that through this, and the lack of technical experts, the plan will fail and there will be counterrevolution. But with these, I think, the wish is father to the thought. Others contend that the enthusiasm for the Plan is tremendous, and that the sacrifices to assist in its accomplishment are made with the same fervour as that displayed by the early Christians in their attempt to convert the world. The truth, I think, lies somewhere between these two.”

“That’s more or less what I’ve heard.” Simon solemnly nodded his head up and down. “Mind you —” he added, “The Five Year Plan is only the first of a series, and they’re up against tremendous difficulties — it’s such a big place — Russia — and nine-tenths of the people couldn’t even read and write before the War; population’s about a hundred and eighty million, and the whole thing’s run by the Communist party, which is only about a million and a half.”

“But, my friend, that million and a half of a few years ago, is nearly four million today. Every day thousands of young people are graduating from the enlarged universities under high pressure, and every one of them is a Communist. That is one great factor in their favour; they control the intelligent youth of Russia, the other is their fanaticism. With them the Communist ideal is a religion. Ambition, comfort, leisure, personal relations, everything must give way to that. That is why I believe in the long run they are bound to triumph.”

Simon’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps — I don’t know,” he said slowly. “Christianity hasn’t triumphed or Islam — and they were fanatical enough. Still it won’t be yet awhile, and anyhow it’s not our business. When do you think of starting?”

“I am leaving tomorrow,” the Duke replied, somewhat to Simon’s surprise. “You will understand, I had not counted upon your company, and I felt that every day was of importance. Traces that our friend may have left in his passage will tend more and more to become obliterated; and I do not care to contemplate what Rex may be suffering in a Bolshevik prison. It was for that reason that I made all speed — even to secure a special diplomatic pass through a certain Embassy, where I have particularly obliging friends.”

“All right,” Simon agreed. “I shan’t be able to get away for a few days, but I’ll follow you as soon as I can.”

“Do not follow me, my friend, but join me in Moscow. I have elected to go by sea to Gothenburg, and hence by rail via Stockholm and St. Petersburg — or rather Leningrad as they call it now. It will take some days longer, but you will remember that the messenger posted Rex’s letter in Helsingfors. It is my intention to break my journey there for forty-eight hours; I shall advertise in the Finnish papers for news of Rex, and offer a substantial reward. If fortune is with us, the messenger may still be in the town, and able to inform us more exactly regarding our poor friend’s misfortune and his present whereabouts.”

“Yes — that’s sound. Thanks —” Simon helped himself to another cigar. “We shall miss our Hoyo’s —” he laughed suddenly.

“Not altogether, I trust,” De Richleau smiled. “I have dispatched two hundred in an airtight case to await our arrival.”

“Won’t they be opened at the frontier? Customs people pretty troublesome about anything like that, I should think.”

“Not these, my friend — I sent them in the Embassy bag — and that, at least, is one privilege that we, who used to rule the world, retain — as long as we have friends in the diplomatic service there is always that wonderful elastic Embassy bag — passing the Customs without examination, and giving immunity to correspondence.”

Simon’s dark eyes flickered at the Duke with an amused smile. “That’s wonderful,” he agreed, “and if the food’s going to be bad we shall enjoy the Hoyo’s all the more. I’ll tell you one thing I’m worried about, though. I can’t speak a word of Russian! How are we going to make our inquiries?”

“Fortunately I can,” De Richleau replied. “You probably do not know it but my mother was a Plakoff — her mother again was a Bourbon-Condé, so I am only one-quarter Russian — but before the War I spent much time in Russia. Prince Plakoff possessed immense estates in the foothills of the Carpathians. A part of that territory is now in the enlarged Rumania, the other portion remains in the new Soviet of the Ukraine. I stayed there, sometimes for months at a time, when I was young. I also know, many of the Russian cities well.”

“That’s lucky,” said Simon. “Now what exactly would you like me to do?”

“Go to the ‘Intourist’ and arrange for a stay of perhaps a fortnight in Moscow; let them obtain your passport visa in the ordinary way — that will take some little time. Book by the direct route to Moscow, via Berlin and Warsaw — you will cross the frontier at Negoreloye; I will meet you in Moscow after making my inquiries in Helsingfors, and combing the Consulates in Leningrad for any information which they may have.”

Simon nodded his bird-like head. “What about the Embassies here. I suppose you’ve done what you can?”

“Yes, but quite uselessly. The American Embassy had already been questioned by Washington on behalf of Channock Van Ryn, but they could add nothing to Moscow’s report that ‘Rex left on December 11th for an unknown destination’.”

“How about mun?”

“Who?” asked the Duke, vaguely.

“Money — I mean,” Simon corrected with a grin.

“I would suggest a good supply; at one time visitors to the Soviet were forced to deposit all foreign money at the frontier; they were given Soviet roubles in exchange, and any surplus of these which they had left over they could exchange once more into their own currency when they left the country; but that is so no longer. It is permissible to carry any currency into Russia, only the amount must be declared, in order that no question can be raised as to taking it out again.”

“Won’t they be suspicious if I — er — bring in more than I should need in the ordinary way?”

“Yes, perhaps. Therefore it would be best if you declare only one third of what you bring; conceal the rest about you — in your boots or the lining of your waistcoat. I am sending a reserve for myself by way of that excellent Embassy bag. It is quite possible that we may need a considerable sum for bribes, and, if we can find Rex, for arranging a method by which he can be smuggled out of the country. If we declare all that we have when we go in — it might be difficult to explain upon what it has been expended, when we go out. You must remember that all travels, hotels, food — practically everything is supposed to be paid for before we start.”

“Jack Straw?” queried Simon, suddenly “I can’t help wondering what he meant by that. Do you think there’s anything to be done there?”

De Richleau ran his hand lightly over his forehead. “What do you suggest?”

“Well, I’ll tell you. I don’t think it would do any harm if I went up to Hampstead one evening — had a look at the people that go there these days — we might get a line.”

“An excellent plan; you will have ample time.”

“Do you happen to have an atlas?” Simon asked with a little laugh. “I’ve almost forgotten what Russia looks like!”

“But certainly, my friend.” De Richleau produced a heavy volume. A table was cleared of its jewelled crucifix, its jade god, and the signed photograph of King Edward VII; then the big atlas was opened out. For a long time the handsome grey head of the Duke remained in close proximity to the dark Semitic profile of Mr. Simon Aron, while the two talked together in low voices.

Some two hours later De Richleau saw his guest down the broad stairway of Errol House to the main hall, and out into the silent deserted streets of Mayfair.

“You will not forget Jack Straw?” he said as they shook hands. “And twelve o’clock at the Ilyinka Gate in Moscow a fortnight hence — it is best that we should seem to meet by chance.”

“I’ll be there,” said Simon, adjusting his top-hat upon his narrow head. “The Ilyinka Gate, Moscow, at twelve o’clock, fourteen days from now.”

III — “Valeria Petrovna”

Simon Aron stepped out of a taxi in front of his cousin’s house in Hampstead one night, a little more than a week after his dinner with the Duke.

Simon was a very rich young man, but it was an interesting point in his psychology that he lived in one small room at his club, and did not own a car. The taxi-driver, however, had no reason to be dissatisfied with his tip, although he had had a long and chilly wait outside Jack Straw’s Castle, which his fare had elected to visit on his way from Piccadilly.

The house was one of those long, low, modern mansions standing back from the road in its own grounds. The short gravel drive and the roadway on each side were lined with private cars of all makes and sizes; the windows of the house were a blaze of light; it was evident that a party was in progress.

Having greeted the maid at the door as an old friend, and divested himself of his silk scarf, white kid gloves, stick, and shining topper — Simon was soon in conversation with his hostess.

“Good party tonight, Miriam?” he asked her in his jerky way, with a wide smile.

“I hope so, Simon dear,” she replied a little nervously. “I’ve taken an awful lot of trouble — but you never know what people will like — do you?”

“Of course it will be a good party, Miriam,” he encouraged her. “Your parties always are good parties! Anyone special coming?”

“We’ve got Gian Capello — he’s promised to play, and Madame Maliperi is going to sing; it’s a great help having Alec Wolff too, he’s really very clever at the piano; Jacob says he’ll go a long way — and knowing him so well I can get him to play at any time.”

“Of course you can — Alec’s a nice boy.”

“I tell you who I have got here —” she went on hurriedly. “Madame Karkoff — you know, Valeria Petrovna Karkoff — from the Moscow Arts Theatre; she’s over here on a visit with Kommissar Leshkin. Jacob met them at the film studios at Elstree last week.”

Simon’s quick eyes flickered about the wide hall; with sudden interest he asked: “Does she — er — speak English?”

“Oh yes. Simon dear I do wish you’d look after her, will you? They don’t know anybody here. It would be an awful weight off my mind. Look! there she is — the dark woman, in the yellow dress. She’s awfully good-looking I think — will you?”

“Well — er —” He appeared to hesitate. “Taking on a bit of a handful, isn’t it?”

“Oh, no, Simon. You get on so well with everybody. Of course,” she went on a little wistfully, “I do love giving parties, but you know what Jacob is — he just asks everybody that he can think of — and I have to do all the work. Do be a dear!”

Simon allowed himself to be led over. “Oh, Madame Karkoff, I want you to meet my cousin, Mr. Aron.” Simon’s hostess smiled a little unhappily. “He’s awfully interested in the theatre.”

“’Ow do you do, Meestaire Aron?” said Madame Karkoff, in a rich, deep, almost husky voice, as she lifted her fine chin and held out a long slender hand. “Come — sit ’ere by me.” With a quick gesture she made a pretence of drawing aside her dress.

Simon accepted the invitation, and produced his cigarette-case. She took one with a little laugh.

“I ’ave been dying for a cigarette,” she confessed. “Ah, sank you.” Almost before the cigarette had reached her scarlet lips Simon’s other hand had left his pocket, and the patent lighter in it flickered into flame. It was a much-practised little trick of his.

“So you are interested in the theatre, eh?” She regarded him curiously. “Tell me about the theatre, Meestaire Aron!”

Simon leant forward and laughed his little nervous laugh into the palm of his hand. “Fraid I can’t,” he chuckled. “Mind you, I’d love to be able to, but we haven’t got a theatre in England!”

“Ah! So you know that, do you?” A gleam of appreciation showed in her large dark eyes.

“Of course,” he nodded vigorously. “There is no theatre here in the sense that you know it; there are some people who try pretty hard, but they don’t get much encouragement — and they’ve got a lot to learn.”

He studied her thoughtfully, marvelling at her dark beauty. The dead-white skin, the narrow arched eyebrows; the rather flat face with high cheek-bones, relieved by the sensual scarlet mouth and slumbrous dark eyes. No one would have thought of her as other than a woman, although she was actually little more than a girl. He put her down as about twenty-five.

“You are a Jew — are you not?” she asked suddenly.

He laughed jerkily again, as he ran his finger down his prominent nose. “Of course. I couldn’t hide this, could I? And as a matter of fact I’ve no wish to try.”

She laughed delightedly, showing two rows of strong white, even teeth. “I ’ave of the Jewish blood myself,” she said then, serious again in a moment. “My grandmother — she was a Jewess. It is good; there is no art where there is not Jewish blood.”

Simon looked round the big lounge-hall. “Plenty of them here tonight,” he said. And indeed, although there were a fair number of Christians, the majority of the guests were obviously what Simon would have termed “our people”. He smiled and waved a greeting as he caught sight of his friend, Richard Eaton, who was one of the Christian minority.

“I would like champagne,” declared Madame Karkoff, suddenly — throwing back her dark head, and exhaling a cloud of cigarette-smoke. “Lots and lots of champagne!”

“All right.” Simon stood up. “It’ll be in the billiard-room, I expect.”

She made no attempt to rise. “Bring it to me ’ere,” she said with a little shrug of the shoulders.

“Ner.” He shook his head rapidly as he uttered the curious negative which he often used. It came of his saying “no” without troubling to close the lips of his full mouth. “Ner — you come with me, it’s so crowded here.”

For a moment her mouth went sullen as she looked at the slim figure, with its narrow stooping shoulders, that stood before her, then she rose languidly.

He piloted her through the crush to the buffet in the billiards-room. An obsequious waiter proffered two glasses; they might have held a fair-sized cocktail, but they were not Simon’s idea of glasses for champagne. He waved them aside quickly with one word — “tumblers!”

Two small tumblers were produced and filled by the waiter. As Simon handed one to Madame Valeria Petrovna Karkoff she smiled approval.

“They are meeserable — those little glasses for champagne, no good at all — all the same you are, ’ow do you say? ‘You are a one, ’ees it not? Chin-chin!”

Simon laughed, they finished another tumbler apiece before they left the billiards-room. “Come on,” he said. “I think Maliperi is going to sing.”

“Maliperi?” she exclaimed, opening wide her eyes. “Come then, why do we stay ’ere?” and gripping him impulsively by the hand she ran him down the long passage to the music-room at the back of the house.

They stood together in a corner while Maliperi sang, and marvelled at her art, although the magnificent voice that had filled so many opera houses was too great for the moderate-sized room, and a certain portion of its beauty lost.

“Let us ’ave more champagne,” said Valeria Petrovna, when it was over. “I feel I will enjoy myself tonight.”

Simon led the way back to the buffet, and very shortly two more tumblers stood before them. As they were about to drink, a big red-headed man put his hand familiarly on her shoulder, and spoke thickly, in what Simon could only imagine to be Russian.

She shook his hand off with an impatient gesture, and answered him sharply in the same tongue.

He brought his rather flabby, white face, with its short, flat nose, and small, hot eyes, down to the level of hers for a moment with a wicked look, and spoke again.

Her eyes lit with a sudden fire, and she almost spat the words back at him — so that her melodious, husky voice became quite harsh for a moment. He turned, and stared angrily in Simon’s face. With his great, broad shoulders, powerful jaw, and receding forehead, he reminded Simon of a gorilla; then with a sudden scowl he swung upon his heel and turned away.

“Who — er — is that?” Simon asked, curiously, although he knew already who the man must be.

She shrugged — smiling again in a moment. “Oh, that — that ees Nicolai Alexis — Kommissar Leshkin. We travel together, you know — ’e is a little drunk tonight, I think.”

After that they heard Capello play; the Maestro was in form and drew marvellous music from his cherished violin.

“Oh, it ’ees tears ’e makes me cry,” Valeria Petrovna exclaimed passionately after he had played one aria, and the gallant Simon found it difficult not to cry out with pain, as she unconsciously dug her sharp nails into his hand which she held between her own.

They returned to the buffet and drank more tumblers of champagne, then Simon suggested that she might like to powder her nose. She seemed surprised at the suggestion, but accepted it; actually it was Simon’s way of saying that he wanted to use the telephone, he also wanted a word with Richard Eaton.

He found his friend without difficulty — and led the way to a quiet corner. Richard Eaton was a young man of medium height. His dark hair was brushed straight back from a “widow’s peak”, grey eyes twinkled out of a tanned, clean-shaven, oval face; he had a most attractive smile. He smiled now at Simon. “You are hitting it up, my boy — who’s the lovely lady?”

Simon looked a trifle sheepish — “Madame Karkoff,” he mumbled. “She’s a Russian — Moscow Arts Theatre — nice, isn’t she? But, look here, where have you been all the week? I’ve been trying to get hold of you for days.”

“I’ve been staying with the Terences, down near Reading — he’s great fun — commanded a battalion of the Coldstream in the Chinese shemozzle. I’ve got my new plane down there — been trying it out.”

“I see,” Simon nodded. “Well — I wanted to see you, because — er — I’m off to Russia in a few days’ time.”

“My dear old boy, you have got it badly!”

“Don’t be an ass.” Simon wriggled his neck and grinned. “No, honestly, there is a muddle on.”

“What sort of a muddle?” Richard Eaton asked, serious at once.

“It’s Rex. He’s in Russia — spot of trouble with the authorities. He’s in prison somewhere — we don’t quite know where.”

“Phew!” Eaton let out a long whistle. “That’s a nasty one — poor old Rex — and you’re going over to try and get him out, is that the idea?”

Simon nodded. “That’s about it”

“Well,” said Richard Eaton, slowly, “you can’t go off on a job like that alone — I’d better come, too. I owe Rex a turn over that mess of mine.”

“Ner — awfully nice of you, Richard, but De Richleau’s coming, in fact he’s already gone — probably there by now, but I’ll tell you what I do want you to do.”

“Go right ahead, Simon.” Eaton took his friend by the arm. “Just say how I can help. I was going to take the new bus down to Cannes for a week or two, but I can easily scrap that.”

“That’s splendid of you, Richard, but don’t alter anything,” Simon begged. “As long as you don’t kill yourself in your plane. I’m always terrified that you’ll do that!”

Eaton laughed. “Not likely; she’s fast and foolproof — a kid of twelve could fly her — but what’s the drill?”

“I shall arrive in Moscow next Tuesday. I’ve got a permit for three weeks; now if you don’t hear from the Duke or myself that we are safely back out of Russia by then, I want you to stir things up. Get busy with the Foreign Office, and pull every wire you know to get us out of it. Of course I shall leave instructions with the firm as well — but I want someone like you, who’ll not stop kicking people until they get us out.”

Richard Eaton nodded slowly. “Right you are, old boy, leave it to me — but I’ll see you before you go?”

“Um, rather — what about lunch tomorrow?”

“Splendid, where shall we say? Let’s go and see Vecchi at the Hungaria. One o’clock suit you?”

“Yes. Look!” Simon had just caught sight of Valeria Petrovna again. “There’s Madame Karkoff — come over and let me introduce you.”

Richard shook his head in mock fright. “No, thanks, Simon. I like ’em small and cuddlesome, with big blue eyes! I should be scared that Russian girl would eat me!”

“Don’t be an idiot! I want to telephone — come and talk to her. I shan’t be a minute.”

“Oh, if it’s only a matter of holding the fort while you’re busy — that’s another thing!” Richard was duly presented, and Simon slipped away.

Eaton found her easier to talk to than he had expected, but she did not attract him in the least. He was glad when Simon came back, and took the opportunity to leave them when they suggested returning to the music-room.

Simon and Valeria Petrovna heard Alec Wolf! play, which was a pleasant interlude — and a bald man sing, which, after what had gone before, was an impertinence.

Later, at the buffet, Madame Karkoff consumed two large plates of some incredible confection, the principal ingredient of which seemed to be cream, with the gusto of a wicked child, and Simon ate some foie gras sandwiches. They both drank more champagne, she lashing hers with Benedictine, because she considered it “dry-thin” and much inferior to the sweet, sparkling Caucasian wine to which she was accustomed; but the amount which she drank seemed in no way to affect her.

At length Simon suggested that he might see her home. She looked round the crowded room with half-closed eyes, then she shrugged eloquently, and smiled. “Why not? Nicolai Alexis will be furious, but what does it matter? — ’E is drunk — let us go!”

With a magnificent gesture she seemed to sweep her garments about her, and the crowd gave passage as she sailed towards the door, the narrow-shouldered Simon following.

They both assured the tired and still anxious Miriam that it had been a “marvellous party”, and reached the hall.

“Mr. Aron’s car? Yes, sir.” The hired butler nodded. “One moment, sir.”

He gave a shout and beckoned, and a moment later a great silver Rolls was standing before the door; Simon had not telephoned in vain. He had a garage with whom he had an understanding that, at any hour of the day or night, a luxury car was always at Mr. Aron’s disposal, and he paid handsomely.

“Where — er — shall I tell him?” Simon asked.

“Ze Berkeley,” she said, quickly. “Come, get in.”

Simon gave instructions and did as he was bid. Almost immediately they were speeding down the gradients towards the West End.

She talked quickly and vividly of the party and the people whom they had just left The car had reached Baker Street before Simon had a chance to get in the question which he’d been meaning to ask; he said quickly: “What about a little lunch one day?”

Her shoulders moved slightly under her ermine cloak. “My frien’, it would be nice — but it is impossible. Tomorrow I ’ave a ’undred things to do, an’ the next day I go back to Russia.”

The car slid through Grosvenor Square, and into Carlos Place. Simon considered for a moment, then he said, seriously: “Are you doing anything for lunch this week?”

She put her head back, and her magnificent laughter filled the car. “Foolish one, I shall be in Moskawa — you are an absurd.”

“Ner.” Simon shook his head quickly. “Tell me — are you booked for lunch next Thursday?”

The car sped through the eastern side of Berkeley Square, and up Berkeley Street. She pressed his hand. “Silly boy — of course not, but I ’ave told you — I shall be in Moskawa once more!”

“All right,” said Simon, decisively. “Then you will meet me for lunch at one o’clock at the Hotel Metropole in Moscow — Thursday, a week today.”

The car had stopped before the entrance to the hotel, the commissionaire stepped forward and opened the door.

“You make a joke! You do not mean this?” she asked, in her melodious, husky voice, leaning forward to peer into his face.

“I do,” nodded Simon, earnestly.

She laughed suddenly, and drew her hand quickly down his cheek with a caressing gesture. “All right — I will be there!”

IV — Cigars and Pistols for Two

At twelve o’clock precisely on the 7th of February, a very cold and miserable little figure stood ostensibly admiring the ancient Ilyinka Gate in Moscow.

It was Mr. Simon Aron, clad in his ordinary London clothes. A smart blue overcoat buttoned tightly across his narrow chest, black shoes, gloves and stick, a soft hat pulled well down over his arc of nose.

Somehow, Mr. Aron, for all his foresightedness in the realms of commerce and finance, had failed to bargain for the rigours of a Russian winter. The cold wind cut through his cloth coat, his feet were wet through with the slush of the streets, and the glare of the snow upon the open “prospekts” was already beginning to hurt his eyes — never too strong at the best of times.

It was with more than ordinary relief that he saw a trim, soldierly form come through the gate; it was easily discernible among the crowd of town moujiks and porters. He recognized the Duke immediately, but how changed — in all but the clever, handsome face.

De Richleau was dressed in the manner of a Russian nobleman before the Revolution, or a high official under the Soviet Government. He wore a heavy coat, belted at the waist and with a vast fur collar, shining black Hessian boots, and on his head at a rakish angle — making him look much taller than usual — a big fur “papenka”.

As the crowd instinctively made way for him, he looked sharply from side to side, evidently catching sight of Simon at the first glance — but taking no apparent notice. Turning to speak to a little man beside him, who wore a shabby coat and peaked cap which suggested some sort of uniform, he started to cross the street diagonally.

Simon knew the shabby individual to be a guide; he had just such another standing at his elbow, dilating to him on the history of the Ilyinka Gate. He turned to his man quickly. “Let’s go on,” he said. “I’m cold,” and he began to walk down the pavement to the point at which the Duke would arrive.

De Richleau looked round suddenly when he was nearly across the road, and seemed to see Simon for the first time. He waved a greeting.

“Hello! mon cher, and what are you doing in Moscow?”

Simon pretended equal surprise as they shook hands. “Over here on a holiday — thought I’d like to see some of the wonderful improvements they’re said to be making.”

“Indeed, yes,” the Duke agreed heartily. “All educated people should know of the great progress which is being made for civilization. I find it most interesting. Have you see the Mogess power station and the Michelson Works?”

“Ner.” Simon shook his head. “I only arrived last night.”

“I see, and where are you staying?”

“The Metropole.”

“Really! But that is excellent; I am there, too.” De Richleau took Simon’s arm and led him down the street — their respective guides, who had been interested listeners, followed side by side. “Are you alone?”

“Yes — friend who was coming with me let me down at the last minute — he couldn’t help it poor chap — lost his father suddenly!”

“Dear me. However, we shall now be able to see something of this fine town together.” The Duke spoke in loud tones, determined, that the guides should not lose one syllable of the conversation. “Some of the historical sights are of the greatest interest — and the museums, what treasures they have got! All the beautiful things that were formerly locked up in the houses of the nobles.”

“I saw the Kremlin this morning,” Simon volunteered. “But I was a bit disappointed really — I mean with the old part — Lenin’s tomb is worth seeing, though!”

“A marvellous sight, is it not, with all those precious metals sent from every part of Russia? The tombs of the Tsars are nothing to it. But you look cold, my friend!”

“I am,” Simon declared feelingly, and in truth his thin face was almost blue.

“But what clothes!” exclaimed the Duke, surveying him. “You must get furs if you are to stay here any length of time, or else you will be miserable!”

“I shall be here about a fortnight,” said Simon doubtfully.

“In that case — most certainly. We will go to the trading rows in Red Square at once.” He turned, and spoke rapidly in Russian to the guides; they nodded, and looked sympathetically at Simon. The whole party then retraced their footsteps.

“It will not cost you a great deal,” De Richleau added. “You see, if we buy well, you will be able to sell the furs again at a good figure before you go home. The comfort to you will most certainly be worth the difference.”

Before long they arrived at the Trading Rows, and after some sharp bargaining, which the Duke carried out with the assistance of the two guides, Simon found himself equipped in a fashion not unlike that of the traditional Cossack. In addition to furs, De Richleau insisted that he should have a pair of galoshes; for without these, no boots, however tough, could long withstand the continual wetness of the Moscow streets in winter; and as Simon looked about him he saw that everyone was wearing them.

“Let us lunch, my friend,” said the Duke, once more taking him by the arm when their purchases were completed. “The Hotel Metropole is not the Ritz in Paris, or our old friend the Berkeley in London, but I am hungry — so it will serve!”

Arrived at the hotel, the guides wished to know “the plans of gentlemen for afternoon”.

“Have you seen the Park of Culture and Leisure?” the Duke asked Simon.

“Ner, what’s that?”

“It is in the Zamoskvarechye — the River district; a great park where there is every variety of amusement for the people — volley-ball, tennis, fencing, a circus and a children’s town, a hundred things — it would be interesting — let us go there.”

“Um,” Simon nodded. “Let’s.”

“If situation is such, gentlemen will not need us?” proffered one of the guides. “Gentlemen can find their way?”

“Thank you — yes,” De Richleau answered. “I have the little map which you gave me.”

“What for evening-time?” asked the other guide.

“A theatre,” the Duke suggested. “I have been to the Arts Theatre already — what of Meyerhold’s theatre? That is where they have all the queer new plays — mechanical scenery, a complete break with all the old stage traditions — shall we go there?”

“Yes — I’d like to see that,” Simon nodded vigorously.

“Certainly,” the guides agreed; again they would not be needed; they would procure seats, and leave the tickets in the bureau of the hotel; was there any other way in which they could be of service? They were polite and anxious to oblige. “No?” Very well, they would call tomorrow morning.

The Duke and Simon were soon seated at a small table in the restaurant.

“Well — er — any news?” Simon asked at once, but the only reply he received was a by no means gentle kick, from the Duke’s big Hessian boot under the table. Then that amazingly interesting and erudite man launched forth into a long dissertation upon the marvels of Moscow — its wonderful historical associations lying side by side with all these modern developments, which, in another two generations, might make it the capital of the civilized world.

It was well that De Richleau talked fluently, and enjoyed talking, since the service of the restaurant was quite appalling. They had to wait twenty-five minutes before a waiter condescended to take their order — and another twenty minutes before the first course arrived.

Despite his anxiety to hear if any news of Rex had been secured by the Duke in Helsingfors or Leningrad, Simon remained patient through the long wait and the plain but satisfying meal that followed. He never tired of listening to the Duke, and the dullness of the fare was relieved by a large helping of caviare. Simon, who was patient by nature, could be especially patient if the caviare was good and plentiful!

Directly they had finished they donned their furs, and left the hotel, but De Richleau did not take the road to the River District. Instead he turned up the Petrowka Boulvarde, saying to Simon as he did so: “I feel that now is the time to ascertain about our Hoyo de Monterreys.”

“Um,” Simon agreed, “hope they came through all right?”

“Yes, but I did not wish to collect them until you had joined me.”

They walked on for some twenty minutes, turning occasionally to right or left; meanwhile De Richleau still avoided the subject of Rex, and continued his dissertation upon Moscow.

Simon looked about him with interest Moscow was quite unlike any large city he had seen — the great majority of the buildings were in a shocking state of repair, the paint peeling from shop-fronts and doorways. The windows broken, boarded over, or covered with grime. Nine out of ten shops were empty and deserted; those that were still occupied had little in their windows other than a bust of Lenin and a Soviet flag, except here and there, where long queues of people waited outside one of the State Co-operative Stores. In contrast to this atmosphere of poverty and desolation, a great deal of demolition was going on, and in nearly every street new buildings were springing up — great structures of steel, concrete, and glass.

The side streets showed ruts and ditches guaranteed to ruin the springs of any car, but all the main roads had been newly paved with asphalt. Traffic was practically non-existent, which gave the streets a strange appearance.

The only regular means of transport seemed to be the trams — and at each stopping place the waiting crowds swarmed upon these like a flight of locusts; there seemed no limit to the number they were allowed to carry, and people who could not force their way inside hung from the rails and platforms at the back and front. One thing that astonished Simon was the extraordinary number of people in the streets — they all seemed to be hurrying somewhere, and he thought that some sort of national holiday must be in progress, but when he suggested this to the Duke, De Richleau shook his head.

“No, my friend — it is only the effect of the five-day week! There are no more Sundays in Russia, or Saturday half-holidays. Everybody works at something, in a series of perpetual shifts, so that from year’s end to year’s end there is no cessation of industry. The factories are never idle, but each individual has every fifth day free — therefore, one-fifth of the entire population of this city is on holiday each day.”

“So that is why there are so many people about — I’m surprised at the queues, though; I thought all that was done away with.”

“While there is no system of delivery there must be queues.” De Richleau shrugged his shoulders. “A great part of everybody’s free time is spent in queueing up for necessities; besides, there is never enough of anything; if you apply for a hat or a pair of new boots, your co-operative society notifies you when they receive a consignment. If you need your boots badly, you must run to be early in the queue, or else there will be none left to fit you, or perhaps no more at all. If you live in Russia now, you must even go out to fetch the milk in the morning — that is, provided you are entitled to a milk ration. Nine-tenths of the milk supply is turned into butter in order that it may be dumped in England, and more machinery bought for the new factories with the money. That’s all part of the Five Year Plan!”

“God-forsaken place! Glad I’m not a Russian,” said Simon, feelingly; “but what about the private shops? Why do the people go to the co-ops and queue up, when they can buy the stuff elsewhere?”

“It is a question of money; everything in the private shops costs from four to five times as much as in the State Stores. The great majority of the people cannot possibly afford to buy from them.”

For some time they had been walking through less crowded streets, and at last they arrived in a small square of what must have been, at one time, respectable private houses. Most of them were now in a sad state of dilapidation.

De Richleau stopped outside one of the least disreputable, which bore the arms, painted in colour on a metal shield above the front door, of one of the lesser South American republics. The word “Legation” was also written up, both in Russian and Roman capitals. He gave a quick glance round — the little square was practically deserted — then he stepped up, not to the front door but to a smaller entrance a few paces farther on, and rang the bell sharply, twice.

The door was opened almost immediately, and, without speaking to the little dark man who held it open, the Duke pushed Simon inside, slipping in himself directly after.

“Is Señor Rosas in?” he asked. “I come from Señor Zavala.”

“Yes, señor, this way — please to follow me.” The little man led them down a long passage to a room at the back of the house.

A swarthy individual rose to greet them with a charming smile. The Duke introduced himself.

“But, yes, Excellency — my good friend Zavala wrote to me from London of your coming. Your case has safe arrival in the diplomatic bag — it is here beneath the table.” Rosas indicated a small, stout packing case. “You would like it opened? But certainly!” He rang the bell, and asked for a chisel and hammer; very soon the wooden case had been prized open, and an inner one of shining tin, about two feet long by a foot wide and eighteen inches deep, placed upon the table. “You would like the privacy to assure yourself of the right contents of the case, Excellency, is it not?” smiled Señor Rosas. “Please to make use of my room — no, no, it is no trouble — only ring when you have finished, that is all!” He slipped softly out of the room, closing the door behind him.

“Now let us look at our famous Hoyos.” De Richleau seized the ring that was embedded in the soft lead strip that ran round the top of the case, and pulled it sharply. A wire to which the ring was attached cut easily through the soft lead, and a moment later he had lifted out the two cedar cabinets of cigars.

Simon opened one with care, and ran his fingers lovingly down the fine, dark oily surface of the cigars. “Perfect,” he murmured; “travelled wonderfully!”

“But that is not all, my friend!” The Duke had opened the other box. The cigars were not packed in two bundles of fifty each, but in four flat layers of twenty-five to the row, and each layer was separated from the other by a thin sheet of cedar wood. Very carefully De Richleau lifted out the top layer on its cedar sheet, and then the next Simon looked over his shoulder and saw that, neatly packed in the place where the two bottom layers of cigars should have been, there reposed a full-sized, ugly-looking automatic.

The Duke removed it, together with two small boxes of ammunition and the packing. “You will find a similar trifle in the other box,” he remarked, as he gently lowered the two trays of cigars into the place where the pistol had lately been,

Simon unpacked the second box with equal care, the Duke taking the two layers of cigars from it, and placing them in the box before him. When all was done, there remained one box full of cigars, the other — empty.

“What — er — shall I do with this?” said Simon, a little doubtfully, as he gingerly picked up the other deadly-looking weapon, with its short blue steel barrel.

“Inside your left breast pocket, my son. It is far too large to carry upon your hip — the bulge would show!”

Simon did as he was bid. They rang the bell, and Señor Rosas rejoined them.

De Richleau thanked him courteously. “There is only one thing more,” he added, “if we may trespass upon your good nature?”

“Excellency, please to command, I beg!”

“I should be grateful if you would be good enough to send this full box of cigars, in a plain parcel, addressed to me at the Hotel Metropole. The other — it contained some papers which I wished to receive undisturbed — I should be glad if you would burn that”

“It shall be done!” The Spaniard’s quick smile flashed out again. “A thousand pleasures to be of assistance to you, Excellency.”

When they were once more out in the square De Richleau tapped his pocket with a grim little smile. “We are short of a hundred cigars,” he said, “but we may be infinitely more thankful to have these before we are out of Russia.”

V — The “Tavern of the Howling Wolf”

After walking for some half an hour they came at last to the Park of Culture and Leisure.

“Now,” said De Richleau, with a sigh of relief, “we can talk freely.”

“Well, I’ll tell you,” Simon laughed into the palm of his heavily gloved hand, “I’m glad about that!”

“My friend,” said the Duke, seriously, “before — it was impossible; there are eyes and ears everywhere. Have you noticed those little ventilators in your bedroom at the hotel? They are microphones, so that all you say may be overheard. In the restaurant, along the walls, there are microphones also; Russia is pleased to welcome the tourist or harmless business man, but always the Kommissars are terrified of counter revolution. It is not easy for the small Communist party to keep an entire population in subjection on short rations; and how can they tell who is the tourist, and who the secret enemy of the Soviet, only by watching? You may be certain that the parcel containing our Hoyos will be opened and examined before it is delivered to me — yes,” he smiled, “and they will look below the two top layers; that was why I did not dare have the case delivered to me just as it arrived. Even the streets are not safe, a passer-by may overhear some chance word, and immediately one is suspect — that is why I brought you here. In these open spaces we are safe — we can speak our thoughts aloud — but only here, remember that!”

“I will,” said Simon, briefly. “Now — any news of Rex?”

“No,” the Duke shook his head. “My advertisements in the Finnish papers at Helsingfors brought no response. The messenger is, perhaps, by this time in Paris or New York, or more probably he is an illiterate who can hardly read. I had to word the advertisements with care, of course, and I did not dare to use my own name — the Russian authorities might have seen them, and refused to allow me to pass the frontier. I worded them as far as possible as if they had been inserted by the American Legation, or a relative who was seeking news of Rex. In any case they have proved useless.”

Simon nodded. “Bad luck that; I didn’t have much fun either. I went up to Jack Straw’s Castle three times; got to know the barman and the manager quite well, but there wasn’t a Russian near the place. Just the usual quiet, old-fashioned pub; no trace of any special club using it as a meeting place either, and very little business doing at this time of year.”

“That is bad — one moment!” The Duke swung on his heel, to confront a seedy-looking man who, although apparently uninterested in them, had approached silently from behind.

The man lurched up as De Richleau turned, and asked in Russian for a light; the Duke gave him one without comment, and they moved on until he was out of earshot.

“Do you think that chap was listening?” Simon asked, nervously.

“I shouldn’t think so — just a lounger. Now tell me, have you had any ideas on the subject of Rex’s mine?”

“Ner. I’ve been puzzling quite a lot about that. Have you?”

“No; it completely defeats me. I did not have any good fortune in Leningrad either, although I questioned everyone that I knew in the Consulates.”