The soldiers about Malcolm and his friend had edged away, and they were alone.
"What are these?" whispered Malcolm.
"Death warrants," replied Malinkoff laconically, and for the second time a cold chill ran down Malcolm's spine.
Name after name were read out, and the little rubber stamp, which carried death to one and sorrow to so many, thudded down upon the paper. Malcolm felt physically ill. The room was close and reeked of vile tobacco fumes. There was no ventilation, and the oil lamps made the apartment insufferably hot. An hour, two hours passed, and no further notice was paid to the two men.
"I can't understand it quite," said Malinkofi in a low voice. "Ordinarily this would mean serious trouble, but if the Commissary had any suspicion of you or me, we should have been in prison an hour ago."
Then suddenly Boolba rose.
"What is the hour?" he said.
A dozen voices replied.
"Half-past ten? It is time that the sweeper was here."
He threw back his head and laughed, and the men joined in the laughter. With a great yellow handkerchief, which reminded Malcolm of some-
