Malcolm looked up and down the deserted street and then caught the eye of the solitary intooski, a thoughtful-looking man with a short, square beard, looking monstrously stout in his padded green coat, the livery of the Moscow drosky driver.
The man on the sidewalk smiled and walked across the pavement.
"Little brother," he said in fluent Russian, "would you condescend to drive me to the Hotel du Bazar Slav?"
The driver who had noted so approvingly the shape of Malcolm's shoulders did not immediately answer; then:
"British?—I thought you were."
He spoke excellent English, and Malcolm looked up at him bewildered.
"I seem to know your face, too—let me think."
The cab-driver tapped his bearded chin.
"I have it—Hay. I met you four years ago at a dinner party in Kieff—you are the manager of an oil company or something of the sort."