“One of your Russian friends called here to-night, and wanted your address, which of course was not given. I saw him—a big surly-looking man, who speaks German fairly well, but would not state his business—so I promised to send enclosed on to you.
“Hope you’re pulling round all right!
“Yours sincerely,
“Walter Fenning.”
A big surly-looking man. Could it be Mishka? I scarcely dared hope it was, remembering how and where I parted from him; but that underlined “Johann” might—must mean “Ivan,” otherwise the Grand Duke Loris. To give the German rendering of the name was just like Mishka, who was the very embodiment of caution and taciturnity.
“Well, I’ve got my marching orders,” I announced. “I’ll have to go back to London to-day, Mary, to meet Southbourne. Where’s the time-table?”
Mary objected, of course, on the score that I was not yet strong enough for work, and I reassured her.
“Nonsense, dear; I’m all right, and I’ve been idle too long.”
“Idle! When you’ve turned out that Russian series.”
“A month ago, and I haven’t done a stroke since.”