The nicest etiquette could hardly require that a prisoner of war should not eavesdrop upon his captors. He put out his oil lamp for a moment. From over the top of the door a thin knife’s edge of light cut into his darkness. He lit his lamp, drew a chair noiselessly to the door, and got upon it. Yes, fortunately for him, the house was old, the door sagged, and he had a very sufficient crack. At the table, on which stood a single candle, the room’s only light, sat the two men, and, her back to him, a woman of whom he could see nothing but that she wore the shapeless, quilted jacket, and the brown, coarse-knit shawl wound tightly about her head, which he had grown accustomed to seeing on workingwomen. “What time was the American coming?” the woman whispered. “At about nine, Sonya,” one of the men replied. Their voices as they went on were low--so low that Drexel caught only fragments of sentences amid blanks of hushed unintelligibility. But from these fragments he pieced together two series of facts. First, that the revolutionists he had met, and hundreds of others, guided by the brain of the great invisible White One, were trying to learn in what prison Borodin was confined, as the first step in an endeavour to bring about his escape. His capture was a paralyzing blow to freedom’s cause, for he was the revolutionists’ greatest statesman; his brain was needed now, and, once the Autocracy was overthrown, there was none who could rebuild as he. Thus far the Government knew him only as Borodin, and the charge on which he was arrested, writing revolutionary articles, would mean no worse than a few years in prison or exile to Siberia; but at any moment the Government might discover that he was also Borski, the sought-after leader of the uprising in Southern Russia, and this discovery would be followed by instant execution. So immediate rescue was imperatively necessary. Second, the young woman of his last night’s adventure had made the bold attempt in Prince Berloff’s house because it was believed the prince had in his possession some document revealing Borodin’s whereabouts. Presently there was a knock at the outer door. “That must be the American,” said one of the men. Drexel could hardly restrain an exclamation of surprise as the door opened and his eyes lighted upon the newcomer. For this third man in workingman’s clothes he knew. He was an American correspondent, James Freeman, whom Drexel had met several times in St. Petersburg cafés. He was a rather tall, black-bearded man of thirty-five, with a lean suppleness of body, piercing black eyes and a daring face. Drexel had always felt an uncanny shrinking when in company with Freeman, so cold, sinister and cynical did he seem; here was a man, his instinct told him, who respected nothing, who feared neither God, nor man, nor devil.