The soldier was a young commissioned officer who was having an artificial jaw supplied to replace the one shot off in a Bolshevik encounter. He had greatly recovered when the call was made and an opening naturally presented for the soldier to recount the part he played in the adventure of his country in the Revolutionary drama of that hour. "I'm as certain as I'm living," the wounded soldier said, "that a Bolshevik is as 'nutty' as a rabbit. The fellow I had by the neck before my lights went out was putting up a holler, in German, and claiming to be a personal friend of some personal friend of the missing Czar. Before he finally passed in his chips he gave me a bundle of paper _diaries_ he had stolen down in China, and he asked me to return them to their rightful owner so that he might die without a sin upon his conscience. Honestly, that chap was dead in earnest in this matter of his conscience. I took the stuff, of course; but I never thought about them until the other day. Since then they seem to haunt me. I wonder if you'd mind looking them over if the nurse'd get them out?" "With pleasure," was the reply. The nurse brought in an old leather bag, from which the Captain extracted two begrimed and blood-smeared rolls written in a very small but strong and vigorous hand. While looking over the documents in a casual way a loose leaf fell to the floor. Upon picking it up, there was found to be written on one side in bold underscored letters: "Make no belief in the evidence that was manufactured to satisfy some bloodthirsty men in Russia. What I have seen with my own eyes I know is true. For the sake of Russia I stoled these papers from the man come from the West who was with them all the way from 'Yekaterinburg to Chunking. What he write is true. "DONETSKY" "That's his name," the Captain said, "and if you don't find that he was as crazy as a bedbug I'll say I'm General Graves." "This diary seems to be written in very good English." "Yes," said the Captain, "all those fellows keep one. They're like the Germans--give 'em a pencil and a piece of paper and they'll scribble all day." "Did he say who wrote this?" "No; he cashed in, as I told you; but you'll see the name of Fox here and there through the diary that's written in the small hand." "_Fox_--who was 'Fox'?" "Search me! Some Johnny, I suppose." "May I take these with me?" "Sure thing! I'll make you a present of 'em. All I ask is, if you find out whether that fellow 'Fox' grabs the peacherino from the Métropole or the one called 'Maria' you'll send me an invitation." The bargain was struck. Then the question was asked: "Any idea who wrote this diary--the one written in a quick running hand?' "Sounds like some fellow with a grouch against Kerensky and Lvov. I know enough Russian to make out that much--" "Evidently one of the Revolutionary officials?"