"Is it so bad?"
"Bad! Moscow is a mad-house. Listen—do you hear anything?"
Above the hum of conversation Malcolm caught a sound like the cracking of whips.
"Rifle-firing," said the general calmly. "There's a counter-revolution in progress. The advanced Anarchists are in revolt against the Bolsheviks. There is a counter-revolution every morning. We cab-drivers meet after breakfast each day and decide amongst ourselves which of the streets shall be avoided. We are pretty well informed—Prince Dalgoursky, who was a captain in the Preopojensky Guard, sells newspapers outside the Soviet headquarters, and the comrades give him tips. One of these days the comrades will shoot him, but for the moment he is in favour, and makes as much as a hundred roubles a day."
The waitress came to the table, and the conversation momentarily ceased. When she had gone Malcolm put the question which he had asked so often in the past four years.
"Can you give me any news of the Grand Duke Yaroslav?"
The other shook his head.
"His Highness was in Petrograd when I heard of him last."
"And—and his daughter? She has been with
