Then came the momentous question as to who should be deputed to carry out the project. It was at first suggested that Grinevitch should be entrusted with the mission, but eventually we decided to cast lots as usual. We threw dice, and Fate decreed that the choice should fall upon me. * * * * * A September night. The rain was falling at intervals from bars of ragged, fleecy cloud, and the lights of Petersburg cast long, uncertain reflections upon the bosom of the dark Neva. The clock of the Izaak Church had long ago struck the hour of one; the theatres were emptied, and the last _café_ had been closed. The rain plashed gloomily upon the pavement of the Nevski Prospekt as I trudged onward. I was making my way to friends who would assist me in my mission. Only half an hour before I had arrived from England, but I was no stranger to the city, although some years had elapsed since I had last walked its broad streets. Already the rain had soaked through my thick travelling ulster, my teeth were chattering, my limbs ached from being cooped up in a close railway carriage for five days, and I felt generally depressed and uncomfortable. As I was passing the Hôtel de l’Europe my attention was arrested by the quick passage of a figure through the light shed by a street lamp—a short man, whose head was sunk between his shoulders, with sharp features and small keen eyes—who glanced sharply at me and passed rapidly on. I thought nothing of the occurrence at the time, because I was fearless. My passport was perfectly legitimate, stating that my name was Alexandrovitch Charushin, Russian subject, born at Odessa, and living in Munich; that my calling was that of _chef_, and, further, that I had returned to Petersburg in search of employment. So completely was I disguised by the removal of my beard and moustache, and the application of theatrical “make up,” that even the spies of the London division of the Secret Police would pass me by unnoticed. Therefore I felt confident of security. Presently I turned from the Nevski into a dingy by-street, and having walked through to the farther end, halted before a confectioner’s, and rang the private bell. My handbag was heavy, and I set it down until I should be admitted. In a few moments the door opened mysteriously, and on my entrance was quickly closed again, leaving me in darkness. “Welcome, friend, to Petersburg,” said a man’s voice in a low tone. “Walk forward, and upstairs.” I obeyed, and on gaining the landing entered a small sitting-room. The two occupants—a man and a woman—rose to greet me. “At last,” exclaimed the young fellow, who subsequently introduced himself as Ivan Liustig, medical student. “You must be hungry. Mascha, here, will get you something to eat.” I turned to glance at his companion. Our eyes met. Our voices mingled in a cry of joy. I had at last found my sister Mascha!