his station so that he could command a view of the narrow strip of garden. Presently his vigil was rewarded. He saw her dark figure walk along the flagged pavement, open the gate and disappear into the darkened street.
Israel Kensky went back to his chair, stirred the fire and settled down to a long wait, his lined face grave and anxious.
The woman had turned to the right and had walked swiftly to the end of the street. The name of that street, or its pronunciation, were beyond her. She neither spoke English, nor was she acquainted with the topography of the district in which she found herself. She slowed her pace as she reached the main road and a man came out of the shadows to meet her.
"Is it you, little mother?" he asked in Russian.
"Thank God you're here! Who is this?" asked Sophia breathlessly.
"Boris Yakoff," said the other, "I have been waiting for an hour, and it is very cold."
"I could not get away before," she said as she fell in beside him. "The old man was working with his foolery and it was impossible to get him to go to bed. Once or twice I yawned, but he took no notice."
"Why has he come to London?" asked her
