"Mindiggle swears he's going to take out a summons, Dad," he continued.
"Then it's your funeral—or Flirt's," added his parent grimly. "From Mindiggle's point of view he's justified in taking steps, to remove a public danger. I don't want our name to figure in the local police-court report, and you don't want to lose Flirt. So the best thing you can do is to allow Mindiggle to cool down a bit, and then call and see him. He may relent."
Noel Fordyce took his father's advice. Already he had sufficient experience of human nature to know that a man is in his best humour after a good meal; so that evening he called at the councillor's house, prepared to eat humble pie for the sake of his canine chum.
He was shown into the councillor's study, a large, well-furnished room, the window curtains of which were closely drawn. Over the roll-top desk was the only electric light that was switched on. The glare shone directly upon a small packet, tied with cord, and sealed with red wax. The Sub could not help noticing the address. The writing was in Russian characters, and was as follows:—
RUSSIA,
PETROGRAD,
BOBBINSKY PROSPEKT, 19,
M. VLADIMIR KLOSTIVITCH.
Noel Fordyce could both read and write the Russian language. In pre-war days he was in the Royal Seal Line, the vessels of which plied between Newcastle and St. Petersburg, and, since the study of Russian was regarded as a valuable adjunct to promotion, the lad had studiously applied himself to master the manifold intricacies of the language.
After keeping his visitor waiting a considerable time—Mindiggle rightly guessed that it was a supplicatory call—the victim of Flirt's animosity entered.