bly before the court.--Give me the names of these
men."

Ivan turned a piteous face towards his friends, and, in an instant,
Sergius said, quietly: "Certainly give our names, Ivan. There is no
reason for withholding them." Nor did either Ivan or the officer
perceive that this young man was holding Irina, now lying back in her
seat, from unconsciousness simply by the power of his eyes, or that he
had grasped Burevsky's hand under the cloth and was keeping him from
self-betrayal by the pure force of contact.

Meantime the officer was writing the names, occupations, and domiciles,
of every one present, at Ivan's dictation; and, as each was given, he
looked it out from a list in his small, black note-book, and checked it
off. This over, he resumed his general questions:

"At what hour did these students arrive in your rooms?"

"I am not certain.--A few minutes--perhaps fifteen--before six."

"_Before_ the hour?"

"Oh yes. We had to wait for Ivan Veliki to stop striking as I was
calling out an order to my servant."

"Are you sure that they were all here then?"

Only now, for the first time, a thought that was like a dagger-thrust
shot through Ivan. He wondered if the officer saw the color leave his
face. Nevertheless his hesitation had been imperceptible when he said,
quietly: "They all came in together."

The sergeant turned to his men and shook his head slightly. A few
muttered words passed between them, the men seeming to agree with their
superior. Then the officer once more faced Ivan, who stood waiting:
"Thank you, sir. You have saved your friends from suspicion.
Nevertheless I was forced to ask, because the entire Quarter is being
searched for the man who, at twelve minutes past six to-night, shot and
instantly killed Major Ternoff, assistant secretary of police, as he was
driving, in his open droschky, through the Pretchishlensky Boulevard,
from the public offices of justice towards his home." And, with a stiff
salute, the sergeant, followed by his three men, turned and left the
room and the apartment.

Mechanically Ivan closed the door upon them, and then stood staring from
the white-faced Sergius to Irina, now supported by a neighbor, who was
wetting her face with water from a goblet.

Presently, as if his thoughts had broken unconsciously into words, Ivan
muttered, in a low, expressionless voice: "Anarchy!--Murder!--Good
God--why didn't they make it my father?"

Then Burevsky rose slowly to his feet.