Upon the approach of half a dozen or more bluejackets he bestirred himself sufficiently to push aside an empty vodka glass and grasp his rifle. "It is all right, comrade!" exclaimed the foremost of the party reassuringly. "We've just had private information as to where we can obtain some sides of beef. We haven't tasted fresh beef for nearly a month. We belong to the _Kuptchino_, and have just come in from Helsingfors." "Have you your permit, comrade?" enquired the sentry. The bluejacket solemnly closed one eye and slipped a sheaf of rouble notes into the man's hand. "'Ts--sh!" he whispered. "These are better than permits, Comrade Ivan. We will not be long, and when we return there will be a bottle of vodka for you." "So long as you do not get me into trouble I am content," remarked the befuddled soldier. "A whole bottle, mind, and none of the stuff from the Winter Palace." He laughed at his own jest, and his listeners laughed too, for the story of the pillaged wine-cellars of the Imperial Palace was now common property--how the Red Guards had looted thousands of bottles, drunk their contents, and refilled them with coloured water. The inhabitants of Petrograd, eager to purchase wine from the ex-Tsar's stock, bought the proffered bottles with avidity, only to find that they had been "sold". There was no redress, for the deluded purchaser realized that arguing with an inebriated Red Guard was likely to end in a bayonet-thrust. Having paved the way for their retreat, the landing-party--Captain Orloff and seven of his men, all in bluejackets' uniform--hastened along the deserted street until they arrived at the Bobbinsky Prospekt. Here Orloff halted his men under an archway, and, taking one of the party, stole softly down the passage until he came to a gap between the two houses--a space fenced off by a tall iron railing. In a very short space of time Orloff's companions filed through two of the bars, and, by means of a powerful tug, wrenched them sufficiently apart to admit a man's body. It was then a simple matter for the two Russians to lower themselves upon the slippery ice on the surface of the stream. Flashing an electric torch, the captain of the _Zabiyaka_ plunged into the arched passage, through which the now frozen water usually flowed. For nearly a hundred yards he went, until he stopped at a small barred grating barely a foot above the ice. "Are you there, Monsieur Fordyce?" he whispered in his own language, knowing that the captive Sub-Lieutenant spoke Russian fluently. "I am. Who is it?" asked Fordyce. "A friend," replied Orloff. "Take courage again," Fordyce, by the by, had never lost it; "help is at hand. I am Boris Orloff, Captain-Lieutenant of the _Zabiyaka_, the destroyer that piloted your craft into Cronstadt." "I am pleased to meet you, sir," said the Sub.