asant conviction that he was looking at the
Grand Duchess from an angle which was outside his experience of fairy
stories.

That night when he went on his way to take up his "police duty" in the
little street behind the Silver Lion, he saw two mounted policemen
trotting briskly down the Strand followed by a closed carriage, and in
the light of the electric standard he caught a glimpse of a face which
set his heart beating faster. He cursed himself for his folly, swore so
vigorously and so violently at his own stupidity, that he did not
realize he was talking aloud, until the open-mouthed indignation of an
elderly lady brought him to a sense of decorum.

She was going to the theatre, of course, he thought, and wondered what
theatre would be graced by her presence. He half regretted his promise
to Israel Kensky, which prevented him discovering the house of
entertainment and securing a box or a stall from whence he could feast
his eyes upon her face.

His vigil was painfully monotonous. It was the most uninteresting job he
had ever undertaken. Most of the habitues of the club had evidently come
at an early hour, for he saw nobody come in and nobody go out until
nearly eleven o'clock. It began to rain a fine, thin drizzle, which
penetrated every crevice, which insinuated itself down his neck, though
his collar was upturned; and then, on top of this, came a gusty easterly
wind, which chilled him to the marrow. Keeping in the shadow of the
houses opposite, he maintained, however, a careful scrutiny, thereby
earning the suspicion of a policeman, who passed him twice on his beat
before he stopped to ask if he were looking for somebody.

As midnight chimed from a neighbouring church the door of the club
opened and its members came out. Malcolm crossed the road and walked
down to meet them, since they all seemed to be coming in the same
direction.

There were about twenty men, and they were speaking in Russian or
Yiddish, but the subjects of their discourse were of the most innocent
character. He saw nobody he knew, or had ever seen before. Israel Kensky
had expected that the St. Petersburg Chief of Police would be present;
that expectation was not realized. Then he heard the door bolted and
chained, and went home, after the most unprofitable evening he had ever
spent.

How much better it would have been to sit in the warm theatre, with,
perhaps, a clear view of the girl, watching her every movement, seeing
her smile, not