ay?"

"Pardon me, that is my business and his."

"Pardon me also, for asking the question. But if I can find direction to
the street I asked you about, I can present you to him," said the
stranger, who was a distinguished-looking man, about fifty years of age.

"You would greatly oblige me by doing so."

"Wait a moment; perhaps that dismounted cossack can direct me," saying
which, he followed the soldier into the cafe.

There was a crowd in there, and Barnwell would have been puzzled to see
whether the stranger actually spoke with the soldier; but after a minute
or so he returned.

"I have learned it. Follow me," said he, turning from the room.

Barnwell did as directed, and together they walked three or four
squares, and then turned into a side street.

A short distance down it he found the number, and knocked upon the door
in a curious sort of manner, and presently it was opened by an
attendant.

"Show me Vola's chamber," said the man, in a low tone of voice, and the
attendant conducted them to it.

"Remain here a moment, and I will bring him before you," said the
stranger, pointing to a chair that stood in the plainly-furnished room.

Being left alone, Barnwell could but reflect upon the strangeness of the
stranger's behavior, for, indeed, he did not seem like a stranger there
at all.

At the expiration of five minutes the door opened, and, apparently,
another person entered the room.

"I am told you are in search of one Peter Vola," said he, taking a seat
in front of him.

"I am, and have been for several days," replied Barnwell.

"What do you wish with him?"

"That is his business and mine, sir."

"Indeed? Might I ask what it relates to?"

"You might, indeed, but I should not inform you unless you were Peter
Vola."

"But do you not know that he is hunted by the police, and that it is
positively dangerous on your part to be even inquiring for him?"

"I was not aware of it, sir."

"But it is a fact, nevertheless."

"I am sorry to know that. But I am a stranger here."

"I observe that you are not a Russian."

"No, I am an American just discharged from Siberia."

"Siberia!" exclaimed the man, starting.

"Yes; I agreed to deliver a letter, of which I knew nothing, to Prince
Mastowix, from Paul Zobriskie, of New York."

"Paul Zobriskie?"

"Yes. He accosted me on the steamer as I was about to sail and asked me
to deliver the letter, which I did, and fearing probably that because I
was