ary."

The Commissary occupied a large house near the Igerian Gate. It was a
house of such noble proportions that at first Malcolm thought it was one
of the old public offices, and when Malinkoff had drawn up at the gate
he put the question.

"That is the house of the Grand Duke Yaroslav," said Malinkoff quietly.
"I think you were inquiring about him a little earlier in the day."

The name brought a little pang to Malcolm's heart, and he asked no
further questions. There was a sentry on the _podyasde_--an untidy,
unshaven man, smoking a cigarette--and a group of soldiers filled the
entrance, evidently the remainder of the guard.

The Commissary was out. When would he be back? Only God knew. He had
taken "the Little Mother" for a drive in the country, or perhaps he had
gone to Petrograd--who knew? There was nobody to see but the
Commissary--on this fact they insisted with such vehemence that Malcolm
gathered that whoever the gentleman was, he brooked no rivals and
allowed no possible supplanter to stand near his throne.

They came back at four o'clock in the afternoon, but the Commissary was
still out. It was nine o'clock, after five inquiries, that the sentry
replied "Yes" to the inevitable question.

"Now you will see him," said Malinkoff, "and the future depends upon the
potency of your favourite patron saint."

Malcolm stopped in the doorway.

"General----" he said.

"Not that word," said Malinkoff quickly. "Citizen or comrade--comrade
for preference."

"I feel that I am leading you into danger--I have been horribly selfish
and thoughtless. Will it make any difference to you, your seeing him?"

Malinkoff shook his head.

"You're quite right, it is always dangerous to attract the attention of
the Committee for Combatting the Counter-Revolution," he said, "but
since I have taken you in hand I might as well see him as stay outside
on my cab, because he is certain to inquire who brought you here, and it
might look suspicious if I did not come in with you. Besides, somebody
will have to vouch for you as a good comrade and friend of the Soviet."

He was half in earnest and half joking, but wholly fatalistic.

As they went up the broad spiral staircase which led to the main floor
of the Yaroslav Palace, Malcolm had qualms. He heartily cursed himself
for bringing this man into danger. So far as he was concerned, as he
told himself, there was no risk at all, because he was a British
traveller, having no feeli