Drexel sat in the third-class waiting-room till a sullen dawn began to creep over the city. Having arranged that his companion was to remain in the station, his cap wrongside out upon his left knee as a sign whereby a messenger might know him, he started for the house where lived Ivan and Nicolai in obedience to Sonya’s command. Weary as he was, he dared not ride the long four miles; no peasant such as he looked would spend forty kopeks for a sleigh. The city was only beginning to rub sleep from its eyes when he slipped unnoticed across the court to the house he so well remembered, and rapped at the door. Presently it opened a few inches and he saw the boarding-house keeper. “Good-morning,” said Drexel. “I want to see Ivan and Nicolai.” “They’ve got nothing for beggars. If you want bread, here’s five kopeks. Now get away with you!” He tried to close the door in Drexel’s face. But Drexel’s shoulder went against the door. “Hold on, friend. I’m not a beggar.” “Either you or your clothes lie. Who are you then?” “A man who wishes humbly to apologize for having done violence to your stomach four days ago.” And he lifted his eclipsing cap. The man stared. “Hey?--what’s that?” Then with a sudden flash in his eyes he swung open the door, and, when Drexel had entered, he swiftly slammed it behind him and shot the bolt. “You’ll not escape again!” he said grimly. “I don’t wish to,” Drexel lightly returned. But it went through him with a chilling uneasiness that, with Sonya sick, and no other to set him right with the household, he would be prisoner here for so long a time as they desired to hold him. “I’ll announce myself,” Drexel continued and went up the stairway. The outer door was unlocked, and he crossed the empty room and knocked at the second door. There was a sleepy cry of “Who’s there?” to which Drexel responded by more knocking, whereupon the door opened and revealed the square figure of Ivan. “What do you want?” snapped the little fellow. “I want to come in, comrade,” cried Drexel, doing so. “And I want food--sleep--clothes!” The undershot jaw of Ivan fell loose. “The American!” he ejaculated. He turned to the bed. “Look at him, Nicolai--in those clothes! The American!” Nicolai was already sitting up in bed, and there was a revolver in his hand and it was pointing at Drexel. “I see,” he said quietly. “Well, if that isn’t a cordial way to say good-morning! Put down that gun.” “Not just yet,” returned Nicolai. “How do you happen to be in those clothes? And how do you come to be here?” “Cheer me up with the sight of food and I’ll talk. But first put away that gun. Oh, I had forgotten the first formality guests are subjected to in this establishment.” He held up his hands. “Here, Ivan--get busy.” The little fellow quickly searched him and announced no weapons. “Now breakfast,” said Drexel.