The house was, I found, somewhat smaller than its neighbors, but
not let out in flats as the others. Upon the door was a large brass
plate bearing the name, "Olga Stassulevitch: modes." I pressed the
electric button, and in answer a tall, clean-shaven Russian servant
opened the door.
"Madame is not at home," was his brief reply to my inquiry.
"Then I will see the Red Priest," I said in a lower tone. "I
come from Elma Heath." Thereupon, without further word, the man
admitted me into the long, dark hall and closed the door with an
apology that the gas was not lighted. But striking a match he led
me up the broad staircase and into a small, cosy, well-furnished
room on the second floor, evidently the sitting-room of some
studious person, judging from the books and critical reviews
