I met Felix Karelin in a rather curious manner. I had been visiting two refugees, Dobroslavin and Bolomez, who lived in Little Alie Street, Whitechapel, and about six o’clock one July evening was walking along Leman Street towards Aldgate Station, intending to take train to the West End. As I turned the corner into Commercial Road, an aged, decrepit, blind man accidentally stumbled against me. Bent, haggard, and attired in a ragged frock-coat, green with age, wearing a battered silk hat, the nap of which had long ago disappeared, he looked unutterably miserable and melancholy. Halting, and tapping with his stick, he exclaimed in broken English: “I beg your pardon, sir.” He was moving onward when I caught him by the arm. There was an accent in his voice that I recognised. “What nationality are you?” I asked in Russian. In the same language he replied that he was a native of Petersburg, and an escaped political exile. “A political!” I repeated, in surprise, as all escaped revolutionists in London were well known to us, and many received money regularly from our fund. “Yes,” he said; “I escaped from the Algachi silver mines a year ago. But you are Russian also.” I replied in the affirmative. He at once urged me to accompany him to his lodgings, where we could talk. “It is only in Briton’s Court, St. George’s Road, not far from here,” he urged. Feeling a sudden interest in the old man, I acceded to his request, and he led me up and down several narrow, squalid streets, with which he was evidently well acquainted. At length we turned down a dirty, evil-smelling court, and he stopped before a small house at the further end. He opened the door with a latch-key, and I followed him upstairs. When we entered his sitting-room on the upper floor I was astonished to find it bright and comfortably furnished. One would never have expected such a clean, cosy room in a house of that character, situate as it was in one of the lowest quarters of the metropolis. Crimson damask curtains hung from a neat gilt cornice; in the centre of the room was a round table, upon which tea was laid, and seated at the window, reclining in a cane rocking-chair, was a pretty fair-haired girl of about sixteen reading a novel. Rising as we entered, she glanced shyly at me. “Elyòna, I’ve brought a friend, one of our compatriots, whose name, however, I have not the pleasure of knowing.” “Ivan Lipatkin,” I replied, uttering the first name that crossed my mind. I considered it politic to conceal my identity until I knew more about him. His daughter smiled, shook hands, and welcomed me. “You are more comfortable here than in Algachi,” I said, glancing around. “Yes,” he replied. “Although I am blind and helpless, I am not exactly destitute.” We took tea together, and were quite a merry trio. Elyòna Karelin was charming, and her father’s conversation was that of an educated and cultured man.