Michael Petroff glanced at his guest while four deep lines suddenly appeared on his forehead. "This teacher," he went on, "was sentenced to four years' imprisonment, only think--four years. He had ten mouths to feed and he embezzled some funds. Voila tout! What do you think of that! Ha, ha! That is the way of the world, you see! In my petition I demand not merely that the sentence should be revoked, but also that officers' salaries should be increased. I demand it--I, Captain Michael Petroff, and I shall also appear in the _Non-Partisan_. You will see, my friend!" Michael Petroff cast a fearless, triumphant glance at the little baldheaded lawyer, who listened and nodded, although he did not quite understand what the Captain meant. "You do a great deal of good!" he whispered, nodding, while a childish smile flitted over his sad, pale little face. And after a moment's reflection he added, "You are a good man. You surely are!" Michael Petroff shook his head. "I do my duty!" he declared earnestly. And laying his hand on his heart while his clear steel-blue eyes flashed, he added: "My sacred duty!" Captain Michael Petroff, former officer in a St. Petersburg regiment, considered it his life work to plead for justice in this world. He called himself "The Tribunal of right and justice." He subscribed for two large daily papers, and searched them every day for cases in which, according to his judgment, injustice had been done to some one. And every day Michael Petroff found cases. Cases and nothing but cases. These cases he cut out, arranged them in chronological order and immediately went to work on them. He often sat up late in his office, as he called his room, or in his editorial sanctum, as he sometimes designated it in an undertone when speaking to his confidential friend. There he would sit and write, in a hand as neat as copperplate, his memorials, protests, petitions, which he delivered every day at six o'clock to the head physician. Dr. Maerz. who had undertaken to forward them regularly. Dr. Maerz was glad to receive these manuscripts which he laid in a separate pigeonhole, in order to use them from time to time as material for his work on Graphomania. The little time that this activity left him, Michael Petroff employed in editing his newspaper. And it was because of this paper that he sometimes secretly referred to his room as "his editorial sanctum." This newspaper did not appear regularly, but only when it happened to be ready. It usually appeared once a year, but sometimes twice, if his nervous condition urged him to greater haste.