By this time I was becoming used to Kennedy's strange visitors and,
in fact, had begun to enjoy keenly the uncertainty of not knowing
just what to expect from them next. Still, I was hardly prepared
one evening to see a tall, nervous foreigner stalk noiselessly and
unannounced into our apartment and hand his card to Kennedy without
saying a word.

"Dr. Nicholas Kharkoff - hum - er, Jameson, you must have forgotten
to latch the door. Well, Dr. Kharkoff, what can I do for you? It
is evident something has upset you."

The tall Russian put his forefinger to his lips and, taking one of
our good chairs, placed it by the door. Then he stood on it and
peered cautiously through the transom into the hallway. "I think I
eluded him this time," he exclaimed, as he nervously took a seat.
"Professor Kennedy, I am being followed. Every step that I take
somebody shadows me, from the moment I leave my office until I
return. It is enough to drive me mad. But that is only one reason
why I have come here to-night. I believe that I can trust you as
a friend of justice - a friend of Russian freedom?"

He had included me in his earnest but somewhat vague query, so that
I did not withdraw. Somehow, apparently, he had heard of Kennedy's
rather liberal political views.

"It is about Vassili Saratovsky, the father of the Russian
revolution, as we call him, that I have come to consult you," he
continued quickly. "Just two weeks ago he was taken ill. It came