"What sort of justice do these people administer?" asked Malcolm curiously.
Malinkoff shrugged his padded shoulders.
"Sometimes I think that the very habit of justice is dead in this land," he said. "On the whole they are about as just and fair as was the old rêgime—that is not saying much, is it? The cruelty of our rule to-day is due rather to ignorance than to ill will. A few of the men higher up are working off their old grievances and are profiting enormously, but the rank and file of the movement are labouring for the millennium."
"I think they're mad," said Malcolm.
"All injustice is mad," replied Malinkoff philosophically. "Now get into my little cab, and I will drive you to the Commissary."
The Commissary occupied a large house near the Igerian Gate. It was a house of such noble proportions that at first Malcolm thought it was one of the old public offices, and when Malinkoff had drawn up at the gate he put the question.
"That is the house of the Grand Duke Yaroslav," said Malinkoff quietly. "I think you were inquiring about him a little earlier in the day."
The name brought a little pang to Malcolm's heart, and he asked no further questions. There was a sentry on the podyasde—an untidy, unshaven man, smoking a cigarette—and a group of soldiers
