.

The soldier was a young commissioned officer who was having an
artificial jaw supplied to replace the one shot off in a Bolshevik
encounter. He had greatly recovered when the call was made and an
opening naturally presented for the soldier to recount the part he
played in the adventure of his country in the Revolutionary drama of
that hour.

"I'm as certain as I'm living," the wounded soldier said, "that a
Bolshevik is as 'nutty' as a rabbit. The fellow I had by the neck
before my lights went out was putting up a holler, in German, and
claiming to be a personal friend of some personal friend of the
missing Czar. Before he finally passed in his chips he gave me a
bundle of paper _diaries_ he had stolen down in China, and he asked me
to return them to their rightful owner so that he might die without
a sin upon his conscience. Honestly, that chap was dead in earnest
in this matter of his conscience. I took the stuff, of course; but I
never thought about them until the other day. Since then they seem to
haunt me. I wonder if you'd mind looking them over if the nurse'd get
them out?"

"With pleasure," was the reply.

The nurse brought in an old leather bag, from which the Captain
extracted two begrimed and blood-smeared rolls written in a very small
but strong and vigorous hand.

While looking over the documents in a casual way a loose leaf fell to
the floor. Upon picking it up, there was found to be written on one
side in bold underscored letters:

"Make no belief in the evidence that was manufactured to
satisfy some bloodthirsty men in Russia. What I have seen with
my own eyes I know is true. For the sake of Russia I stoled
these papers from the man come from the West who was with them
all the way from 'Yekaterinburg to Chunking. What he write is
true.

"DONETSKY"

"That's his name," the Captain said, "and if you don't find that he
was as crazy as a bedbug I'll say I'm General Graves."

"This diary seems to be written in very good English."

"Yes," said the Captain, "all those fellows keep one. They're like the
Germans--give 'em a pencil and a piece of paper and they'll scribble
all day."

"Did he say who wrote this?"

"No; he cashed in, as I told you; but you'll see the name of Fox here
and there through the diary that's written in the small hand."

"_Fox_--who was 'Fox'?"

"Search me! Some Johnny, I suppose."

"May I take these with me?"

"Sure thing! I'll make you