The Palace of Industry—where, with a fine sense of the fitness of the name, the Parisians amuse themselves—was in a blaze of electric light and fashion. The occasion was the Concours Hippique, an ultra-equine fjte, where the lovers of the friend of man, and such persons as are fitted by an ungenerous fate with limbs suitable to horsey clothes, meet and bow. In France, as in a neighboring land (less sunny), horsiness is the last refuge of the diminutive. It is your small man who is ever the horsiest in his outward appearance, just as it is your very plain young person who is keenest at the Sunday-school class.

When a Frenchman is horsey he never runs the risk of being mistaken for a groom or a jockey, as do his turfy compeers in England. His costume is so exaggeratedly suggestive of the stable and the horse as to leave no doubt whatever that he is an amateur of the most pronounced type. His collar is so white and stiff and portentous as to make it impossible for him to tighten up his own girths. His breeches are so breechy about the knees as to render an ascent to the saddle a feat which it is not prudent to attempt without assistance. His gloves are so large and seamy as to make it extremely difficult to grasp the bridle, and quite impossible to buckle a strap. Your French horseman is, in fact, rather like a knight of old, inasmuch as his attendants are required to set him on his horse with his face turned in the right direction, his bridle in his left hand, his whip in his right, and, it is to be supposed, his heart in his mouth. When he is once up there, however, the gallant son of Gaul can teach even some of us, my fox-hunting masters, the way to sit a horse!

We have, however, little to do with such matters here, except in so far as they affect the persons connected with this record. The Concours Hippique, be it therefore known, was at its height. Great deeds of horsemanship had been successfully accomplished. The fair had smiled beneath pencilled eyebrows upon the brave in uniform and breeches. At the time when we join the fashionable throng, the fair are smiling their brightest. It is, in fact, an interval for refreshment.

A crowd of well-dressed men jostled each other good-naturedly around a long table, where insolent waiters served tepid coffee, and sandwiches that had been cut by the hand of a knave. In the background a number of ladies nodded encouragement to their cavaliers in the intervals of scrutinizing each other’s dresses. Many pencilled eyebrows were raised in derision of too little style displayed by some innocent rival, or brought down in disapproval of too much of the same vague quality displayed by one less innocent.

In the midst of these, as in his element, moved the Baron Claude de Chauxville, smiling his courteous, ready smile, which his enemies called a grin. He took up less room than the majority of the men around him; he succeeded in passing through narrower places, and jostled fewer people. In a word, he proved to his own satisfaction, and to the discomfiture of many a younger man, his proficiency in the gentle art of getting on in the world.

Not far from him stood a stout gentleman of middle age, with a heavy fair mustache brushed upward on either side. This man had an air of distinction which was notable even in this assembly; for there were many distinguished people present, and a Frenchman of note plays his part better than do we dull, self-conscious islanders. This man looked like a general, so upright was he, so keen his glance, so independent the carriage of his head.

He stood with his hands behind his back, looking gravely on at the social festivity. He bowed and raised his hat to many, but he entered into conversation with none.

“Ce Vassili,” he heard more than once whispered, “c’est un homme dangereux.”

And he smiled all the more pleasantly.

Now, if a very keen observer had taken the trouble to ignore the throng and watch two persons only, that observer might have discovered the fact that Claude de Chauxville was slowly and purposely making his way toward the man called Vassili.

De Chauxville knew and was known of many. He had but recently arrived from London. He found himself called upon to shake hands ` l’anglais with this one and that, giving all and sundry his impressions of the perfidious Albion with a verve and neatness truly French. He went from one to the other with perfect grace and savoir-faire, and each change of position brought him nearer to the middle-aged man with upturned mustache, upon whom his movements were by no means lost.

Finally De Chauxville bumped against the object of his quest—possibly, indeed, the object of his presence at the Concours Hippique. He turned with a ready apology.

“Ah!” he exclaimed; “the very man I was desiring to see.”

The individual known as “ce Vassili”—a term of mingled contempt and distrust—bowed very low. He was a plain commoner, while his interlocutor was a baron. The knowledge of this was subtly conveyed in his bow.

“How can I serve M. le Baron?” he enquired in a voice which was naturally loud and strong, but had been reduced by careful training to a tone inaudible at the distance of a few paces.

“By following me to the Cafi Tantale in ten minutes,” answered De Chauxville, passing on to greet a lady who was bowing to him with the labored grace of a Parisienne.

Vassili merely bowed and stood upright again. There was something in his attitude of quiet attention, of unobtrusive scrutiny and retiring intelligence, vaguely suggestive of the police—something which his friends refrained from mentioning to him; for this Vassili was a dignified man, of like susceptibilities with ourselves, and justly proud of the fact that he belonged to the Corps Diplomatique. What position he occupied in that select corporation he never vouchsafed to define. But it was known that he enjoyed considerable emoluments, while he was never called upon to represent his country or his emperor in any official capacity. He was attached, he said, to the Russian Embassy. His enemies called him a spy; but the world never puts a charitable construction on that of which it only has a partial knowledge.

In ten minutes Claude de Chauxville left the Concours Hippique. In the Champs Elysies he turned to the left, up toward the Bois du Boulogne; turned to the left again, and took one of the smaller paths that lead to one or other of the sequestered and somewhat select cafis on the south side of the Champs Elysies.

At the Cafi Tantale—not in the garden, for it was winter, but in the inner room—he found the man called Vassili consuming a pensive and solitary glass of liqueur.

De Chauxville sat down, stated his requirements to the waiter in a single word, and offered his companion a cigarette, which Vassili accepted with the consciousness that it came from a coroneted case.

“I am rather thinking of visiting Russia,” said the Frenchman.

“Again,” added Vassili, in his quiet voice.

De Chauxville looked up sharply, smiled, and waved the word away with a gesture of the fingers that held a cigarette.

“If you will—again.”

“On private affairs?” enquired Vassili, not so much, it would appear, from curiosity as from habit. He put the question with the assurance of one who has a right to know.

De Chauxville nodded acquiescence through the tobacco smoke.

“The bane of public men—private affairs,” he said epigrammatically.

But the attachi to the Russian Embassy was either too dense or too clever to be moved to a sympathetic smile by a cheap epigram.

“And M. le Baron wants a passport?” he said, lapsing into the useful third person, which makes the French language so much more fitted to social and diplomatic purposes than is our rough northern tongue.

“And more,” answered De Chauxville. “I want what you hate parting with—information.”

The man called Vassili leaned back in his chair with a little smile. It was an odd little smile, which fell over his features like a mask and completely hid his thoughts. It was apparent that Claude de Chauxville’s tricks of speech and manner fell here on barren ground. The Frenchman’s epigrams, his method of conveying his meaning in a non-committing and impersonal generality, failed to impress this hearer. The difference between a Frenchman and a Russian is that the former is amenable to every outward influence—the outer thing penetrates. The Russian, on the contrary, is a man who works his thoughts, as it were, from internal generation to external action. The action, moreover, is demonstrative, which makes the Russian different from other northern nations of an older civilization and a completer self-control.

“Then,” said Vassili, “if I understand M. le Baron aright, it is a question of private and personal affairs that suggests this journey to—Russia?”

“Precisely.”

“In no sense a mission?” suggested the other, sipping his liqueur thoughtfully.

“In no sense a mission. I give you a proof. I have been granted six months’ leave of absence, as you probably know.”

“Precisely so, mo’ cher Baron.” Vassili had a habit of applying to every one the endearing epithet, which lost a consonant somewhere in his mustache. “When a military officer is granted a six months’ leave, it is exactly then that we watch him.”

De Chauxville shrugged his shoulders in deprecation, possibly with contempt for any system of watching.

“May one call it an affaire de coeur?” asked Vassili, with his grim smile.

“Certainly. Are not all private affairs such, one way or the other?”

“And you want a passport?”

“Yes—a special one.”

“I will see what I can do.”

“Thank you.”

Vassili emptied his glass, drew in his feet, and glanced at the clock.

“But that is not all I want,” said De Chauxville.

“So I perceive.”

“I want you to tell me what you know of Prince Pavlo Alexis.”

“Of Tver?”

“Of Tver. What you know from your point of view, you understand, my dear Vassili. Nothing political, nothing incriminating, nothing official. I only want a few social details.”

Again the odd smile fell over the dignified face.

“In case,” said Vassili, rather slowly, “I should only impart to you stale news and valueless details with which you are already acquainted, I must ask you to tell me first what you know—from your point of view.”

“Certainly,” answered De Chauxville, with engaging frankness. “The man I know slightly is the sort of thing that Eton and Oxford turn out by the dozen. Well dressed, athletic, silent, a thorough gentleman—et voil` tout.”

The face of Vassili expressed something remarkably like disbelief.

“Ye—es,” he said slowly.

“And you?” suggested De Chauxville.

“You leave too much to my imagination,” said Vassili. “You relate mere facts—have you no suppositions, no questions in your mind about the man?”

“I want to know what his purpose in life may be. There is a purpose—one sees it in his face. I want also to know what he does with his spare time; he must have much to dispose of in England.”

Vassili nodded, and suddenly launched into detail.

“Prince Pavlo Alexis,” he said, “is a young man who takes a full and daring advantage of his peculiar position. He defies many laws in a quiet, persistent way which impresses the smaller authorities and to a certain extent paralyzes them. He was in the Charity League—deeply implicated. He had a narrow escape. He was pulled through by the cleverest man in Russia.”

“Karl Steinmetz?”

“Yes,” answered Vassili behind the rigid smile; “Karl Steinmetz.”

“And that,” said De Chauxville, watching the face of his companion, “is all you can tell me?”

“To be quite frank with you,” replied the man who had never been quite frank in his life, “that is all I want to tell you.”

De Chauxville lighted a cigarette, with exaggerated interest in the match.

“Paul is a friend of mine,” he said calmly. “I may be staying at Osterno with him.”

The rigid smile never relaxed.

“Not with Karl Steinmetz on the premises,” said Vassili imperturbably.

“The astute Mr. Steinmetz may be removed to some other sphere of usefulness. There is a new spoke in his Teutonic wheel.”

“Ah!”

“Prince Paul is about to marry—the widow of Sydney Bamborough.”

“Sydney Bamborough,” repeated Vassili musingly, with a perfect expression of innocence on his well-cut face. “I have heard that name before.”

De Chauxville laughed quietly, as if in appreciation of a pretty trick which he knew as well as its performer.

“She is a friend of mine.”

The attachi, as he was pleased to call himself, to the Russian Embassy, leant his arms on the table, bending forward and bringing his large, fleshy face within a few inches of De Chauxville’s keen countenance.

“That makes all the difference,” he said.

“I thought it would,” answered De Chauxville, meeting the steady gaze firmly.