As they turned through a short lane from St. Ann’s Street to the Street of the Pigeons they failed to notice a pair of men conversing quietly behind the buttress of a house on the farther side. Both were of short stature, and one was much bent as he spoke he raised his long, lean fingers close to his mouth: “Sh-h. . . . That is the boy.” The other started and turned quickly, but appeared puzzled. “When did you say he came?” The bent-over man, who was no other than Stas, son or the woman who lived in the court, gave the date to a day. “Then it must be he,” exclaimed the other. “On the day that I saw him he was dressed like a country youth and his clothes were dusty from travel. To-day he is arrayed in velvet like any prince and has besides the cap of a junior collegian. But his stature is the same. And you say that he lives above you?” “Yes. Goes by the name of Kovalski.” “H’m—it was Charnetski when I knew him. . . . Now, you, look at me—do you see this piece of gold? That’s true gold, red gold, an’ will buy many a dainty or many a drink. That is to be yours, for your very own.” Stas almost shrieked for joy when the stranger put the piece of money in his hand. “But look you—no talking about this anywhere else. This is my business, mine and yours, and I tell you that when we are finished there will be more gold pieces for you just like that. Now show me the place where they live.” They followed along until Joseph and Elzbietka stood before the entrance to the court. “That is the place,” said Stas. “Well and good. Now keep a close watch and let me know anything that is new. I will be at the Inn of the Golden Elephant every afternoon at the third hour, but do not tell any one there that you are looking for me. Let your words be only for my ears. And remember, the lantern in the man’s face to-night. There will be much gold for you. You understand?” The man did. His very shoulders seemed to chuckle at the thought of it. He let himself into the court and went at once to his room. In the meantime the other walked briskly to the inn and sat down at a table. His thoughts were dancing in his head, for by an extraordinary piece of luck he had succeeded in locating the family of Pan Andrew. Luck indeed it was because never, if he had come upon him face to face in the street, would he have known Joseph at all. It was only because Stas had named him as the son of the man who went abroad only by night, that he could see any resemblance to that boy who had sent his horse flying away through the mud on that morning so many weeks before. For this man was that same one who called himself Stefan Ostrovski.