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."
"Right," said the astonished young man, "but—I don't exactly place you."
The drosky driver smiled.
"And yet I dined with you," he said. "I sat next the Grand Duchess Irene—later, when war broke out, I invited you to my headquarters."
"Good God!" Malcolm's jaw dropped. "Genera Malinkoff!"
"Commanding the 84th Caucasian Division," said the bearded man dryly, "and now commanding one little horse. If you will get into my excellent cab I will drive you to a restaurant where we may eat and drink and be almost merry for—fifty roubles."
Malcolm stepped into the little drosky like a man in a dream. Malinkoff! He remembered him, a fine figure on a horse, riding through Kieff at the
