Pale yellow sunset had poured out its cold half-light upon the roofs, and gradually in the depths of the London streets everything grew grey and dim. In the clear deep blue the first star was already shining. Objects began to assume a disordered aspect, and melt away in the darkness. The city, worn out with the vanity of the day, had become calm, as if gathering strength to pass the evening in the same vanity and turmoil. Already the lights of the street lamps in Oakleigh Gardens were springing up, forming long, straight lines, as I drew down the blind and flung myself into the inviting armchair before the cheerful fire. Taking from the table an open letter written in cipher, I read it through by the flickering firelight. It was addressed to Pétroff, and ran as follows:— “Nicolas Kassatkin, who will arrive in London on Tuesday next, is a trusted and valued member of our Circle at Novgorod. He has been twice imprisoned, first at Petropaulovsk, and secondly at Schlusselburg, whence he has escaped. We are sending him to you because we are confident that he can be of assistance. He is daring, enthusiastic, and speaks several languages. Being in possession of a private income, he will not need any financial help from the Executive. He will be the bearer of a note to you.—Signed, on behalf of the Novgorod Brothers of Freedom—SOLOMON GOLDSTEIN, ALEXANDER ROSTOVTZEFF.” I replaced it upon the table, and leaning back in the chair, smoked reflectively. Having called to consult the Executive on some urgent business, Pétroff had asked me to remain and welcome the newcomer. By repute I knew him as a fearless Revolutionist, who had taken an active part in several plots which had for their object the removal of corrupt officials, and had been more or less successful. I was plunged in reverie, induced perhaps by the dim, uncertain light of the fire and the soothing properties of nicotine, when a loud ring at the hall-bell aroused me. Almost immediately afterwards I heard the voices of Pétroff, Tersinski, and Grinevitch welcoming the stranger in Russian, and a few moments later they entered and introduced him to me. We shook hands cordially, and as Grinevitch lit the gas I saw that the stranger was a man of medium height, and about thirty years of age. His face was of a rather low type. He had deep-set, grey eyes, with a fixed stare, a large, fair moustache, prominent cheek bones, and fair, lank, unkempt hair, while his deeply-furrowed brow spoke mutely of long imprisonment and infinite pain and suffering. Removing his heavy travelling-coat, he seated himself before the fire to thaw, at the same time taking a letter from his pocket and handing it to Paul Pétroff.