From this train of reveries he was aroused by footsteps in the hall. Then came a sharp rap on the door. As the command to enter left Sandoff’s lips Serge Zamosc stepped into the room, followed by a short thick set man, muffled to his ears in a great coat. Zamosc’s manner gave evidence of excitement. He glanced at Sandoff, and then turned to his companion, who stood awkwardly in the center of the floor with his eyes downcast and his hands pulling nervously at his fur coat. “This is the Honorable Inspector,” he cried impatiently. “Now speak! Tell him what you know. If you have brought me here for nothing, it will fare ill with you. “I found this fellow in the street a few moments ago,” he added to Sandoff. “He insisted that he had something of importance to communicate, and as he would have nothing to say to me, but insisted on seeing you, I thought it best to let him have his way. Possibly he brings some news bearing on the Shamarin affair.” Sandoff turned to the man, whose dress and appearance showed him to belong to the lower classes. “Well, what is it?” he said kindly. “I am Inspector Sandoff.” “I—I beg pardon, your honor,” stammered the fellow appealingly. “I—I must see you alone.” “Very well,” replied Sandoff. “That is easily arranged.” He led the man into the adjoining apartment, which was the middle one of the suite of three rooms which formed the headquarters of the Third Section. A third room adjoined this, and like the one into which Sandoff had just ushered his visitor, it had a few chairs, a table, and a cot, and was lighted by a small barred window high up in the wall. These two rear apartments had witnessed many a tragic scene, for here prisoners were often brought for secret examination, and sometimes confined for a day or two. The walls were thick and the doors massive. When Sandoff had shut off communication with the front room by closing the door, he turned questioningly to the stranger, who was sitting on the edge of a chair, with a very pale face. “Is it true, your honor,” began the man finally, in a weak, quavering voice, “that a reward of five thousand rubles is offered for information that will cause the arrest of Felix Shamarin, the Nihilist?” The fellow spoke the last words glibly enough. He had evidently committed them to memory. “Ah!” thought Sandoff, “an informer? “Yes,” he said aloud, “it is true that such a sum will be paid—not for any indefinite information, though. We have already located our man within a certain radius. Who are you, and what do you know?” “My name is Poussin,” replied the fellow. “I have come to claim the reward. Felix Shamarin is in hiding at the house of one Lyapin, a locksmith, who dwells on the bank of the Fontana Canal, near the Ostroff bridge. He intends to escape before the break of another day, so you must lose no time if you wish to take him.” Sandoff’s eyes sparkled. “Are you sure this information is correct?” he asked.