"Kroten," he muttered. "Here it is,--a small place about six hundred
miles from Petrograd, apparently the centre of a barren, swampy
district, population thirty thousand, birth rate declining, industries
nil. Cheerful sort of spot it seems!"

"I have more luck than you!" Maggie cried, her finger tracing out a
line in the open telephone book. "Look!"

Nigel glanced over her shoulder and read the entry to which she was
pointing:

"_Immelan Oscar, 13 Clarges Street, W. Mayfair 146._"




CHAPTER VI


Nigel played golf at Ranelagh, on the following Sunday morning, with
Jere Chalmers, a young American in the Diplomatic Service, who had just
arrived in London and brought a letter of introduction to him. They had
a pleasant game and strolled off from the eighteenth green to the
dressing rooms on the best of terms with each other.

"Say, Dorminster," his young companion enjoined, "let's get through this
fixing-up business quickly. I've had a kind of feeling for a cocktail,
these last four holes, which I can't exactly put into words. Besides, I
want to have a word or two with you before the others come down."