IN WARSAW 171

the foreigners are to be blamed for coming in and taking
the trade.”

“That is true enough,” the landlord admitted reluctantly.
“Still, there is no doubt the country is kept poor, while
between them these men gather up the harvest.”

“Better that than let it rot upon the ground,” Stanislas
said unconcernedly; and then, having obtained the name
of the street where several of the Scottish traders had places
of business, he and Charlie started on foot. They were
not long in finding the shop with the sign of the merchant
swinging over the door.

“Vou had better wait outside, Stanislas, while I go in
and see the master. No; if he is not in the shop his men
will not understand me, so come in with me till you see
that I have met him, and then go back to the inn for the
night. Whether I join you there will depend upon the
warmth of my welcome.”

Two or three young Poles were in the shop. Stanislas
asked them for Allan Ramsay, and they replied that he was
taking his evening meal upstairs, whereupon Charlie pro-
duced the letter from Colonel Jamieson, and Stanislas
requested one of them to take it up to the merchant.
Three minutes later the inner door opened, and a tall man
with a ruddy face and blue eyes entered, holding the open
letter in his hand. Charlie took a step forward to meet
him.

“So you are Sandy Anderson,” he said heartily, with a
merry twinkle in his eye, “my connection, it seems, and
the friend of my dear class-mate Jamieson? Come up-
stairs. Who is this Scotch looking lad with you?”

“THe is my servant and interpreter. His grandfather
was a Swede, and to him he owes his fair hair and com-
plexion. Heisa Lithuanian. He is to be trusted, I hope,
thoroughly. He was sent with me by—”

“Never mind names,” the Scotchman said hastily. “We