regained his usual philosophic tone, and, reminding Gertrude that he
need not be away from England for more than a fortnight, he took
leave of her and set off in a prompt, manly fashion, leaving most of
his belongings at Ivy Cottage, which was his for another six weeks,
and to which he hoped shortly to return.

After a weary time of imprisonment in my envelope, I at length
reached my destination at St. Petersburg and was read by Dmitry
Leonoff. He was a very busy man, and by the same post received
dozens of other letters. He merely muttered--"That well-known firm!
A most unlikely story!"--and then thrust me into a drawer with other
letters which had to be answered. Very probably I escaped his
memory altogether for the next few days: however, there I was--a
startling accusation in black and white; and, as everybody knows,
St. Petersburg is not London.

The Leonoff family lived on the third storey of a large block of
buildings in the Sergeffskaia. About two o'clock in the morning, on
the third day after my arrival, the whole household was roused from
sleep by thundering raps on the door, and the dreaded cry of "Open
to the police."

The unlucky master was forced to allow himself, his wife, and his
children to be made prisoners, while every corner of the house was
searched and every book and paper examined.

Leonoff had nothing whatever to do with the Revolutionary movement,
but absolute innocence does not free people from the police
inquisition, and five or six years ago, when the Search mania was at
its height, a case is on record of a poor lady whose house was