“Ah, you want to be introduced!” Ivan sprang up, a hunk of bread in one hand and of sausage in the other, and his little eyes gleamed with a wild, humorous twinkle. “Allow me to present myself”--he bowed low, the hand with the sausage to his heart--“Ivan, the son of I don’t know who, cradled in the gutter, rocked to sleep on the toe of a policeman’s boot, schooled with the dogs, my income the luxurious sum of 60 kopeks a day drawn from my stock in a lace factory. Glad to meet me, hey?” He grinned lopsidedly at Drexel. “That’s me,” he nodded. “But with Nicolai”--his sausaged hand made a wave toward his comrade--“it’s another story. He’s educated--he was rich--he--but tell him, comrade.” “Do,” urged Drexel. “Very well,” said the other with his quiet shrug; “but it’s little more than Ivan’s story. My parents were well-to-do, yes--but very conservative. While I was in the gymnasium preparing for the university, all the country became excited about gaining freedom. I was loyal enough to the Czar at that time, for I was only seventeen and had been shielded by my parents from liberal opinions. But I was caught by the general spirit and took part in a meeting of the students to demand a constitution. Several of us were arrested and exiled to Siberia.” “Been sent to Siberia! Think of that!” cried Ivan proudly, and half envious of the distinction of his friend. Then his tone changed to fierce hatred. “Think of exiling a schoolboy--and for that!” His brown teeth clenched. “But it did me good,” went on Nicolai’s quiet voice. “I wasn’t a revolutionist before, but that made me one. After six months I managed to escape, and came back, and----” “And then we met each other,” broke in Ivan. “And ever since we’ve been brothers. Hey, comrade?” And in an instant he was skipping nimbly about the table patting Nicolai affectionately on the shoulder. But the next instant he was talking again to Drexel. “We’re always together, we two, both lace-makers--The Inséparables they call us. Oh, and what a lot he knows! Me, I only know this!” Instantly he had whipped out a big pistol and was flourishing it in the air. “That’s the only argument that will ever win us liberty”--lovingly patting the black chamber of the weapon. “The Duma--bah! We’ve got to fight--to die!” The pocked-marked little fellow began excitedly to pace the low room, a chunk of sausage in one hand, the pistol in the other. Nicolai quietly filled himself another glass of tea. Now that there was no speech for a few moments the purpose of his being here came again to the fore of Drexel’s mind. He looked at his watch. “It’s one o’clock,” he said. “Are you sure she is coming?” Ivan glanced at Nicolai. “You must have patience,” answered Nicolai. Drexel’s burning curiosity could not refrain from a question concerning this woman that he loved. “You know her?” Both nodded. “Do you mind telling me about her--anything, that is, you don’t object to telling?”