The table d’htte of the Httel de Moscou at Tver had just begun. The soup had been removed; the diners were engaged in igniting their first cigarette at the candles placed between each pair of them for that purpose. By nature the modern Russian is a dignified and somewhat reserved gentleman. By circumstance he has been schooled into a state of guarded unsociability. If there is a seat at a public table conveniently removed from those occupied by earlier arrivals the new-comer invariably takes it. In Russia one converses—as in Scotland one jokes—with difficulty.

A Russian table d’htte is therefore any thing but hilarious in its tendency. A certain number of grave-faced gentlemen and a few broad-jowled ladies are visibly constrained by the force of circumstance to dine at the same table and hour, et voil` tout. There is no pretence that any more sociable and neighborly motive has brought them together. Indeed, they each suspect the other of being a German, or a Nihilist, or, worse still, a Government servant. They therefore sit as far apart as possible, and smoke cigarettes between and during the courses with that self-centred absorption which would be rude, if it were not entirely satisfactory, to the average Briton. The ladies, of course, have the same easy method of showing a desire for silence and reflection in a country where nurses carrying infants usually smoke in the streets, and where a dainty confectioner’s assistant places her cigarette between her lips in order to leave her hands free for the service of her customers.

The table d’htte of the Httel de Moscou at Tver was no exception to the general rule. In Russia, by the way, there are no exceptions to general rules. The personal habits of the native of Cronstadt differ in no way from those of the Czar’s subject living in Petropavlovsk, eight thousand miles away.

Around the long table of the host were seated, at respectable intervals, a dozen or more gentlemen, who gazed stolidly at each other from time to time, while the host himself smiled broadly upon them all from that end of the room where the lift and the smell of cooking exercise their calling—the one to spoil the appetite, the other to pander to it when spoilt.

Of these dozen gentlemen we have only to deal with one—a man of broad, high forehead, of colorless eyes, of a mask-like face, who consumed what was put before him with as little noise as possible. Known in Paris as “Ce bon Vassili,” this traveller. But in Paris one does not always use the word bon in its English sense of “good.”

M. Vassili was evidently desirous of attracting as little attention as circumstances would allow. He was obviously doing his best to look like one who travelled in the interest of braid or buttons. Moreover, when Claude de Chauxville entered the table d’htte room, he concealed whatever surprise he may have felt behind a cloud of cigarette smoke. Through the same blue haze he met the Frenchman’s eye, a moment later, without the faintest twinkle of recognition.

These two worthies went through the weird courses provided by a cook professing a knowledge of French cuisine without taking any compromising notice of each other. When the meal was over Vassili inscribed the number of his bedroom in large figures on the label of his bottle of St. Emilion—after the manner of wise commercial-travellers in continental hotels. He subsequently turned the bottle round so that Claude de Chauxville could scarcely fail to read the number, and with a vague and general bow he left the room.

In his apartment the genial Vassili threw more wood into the stove, drew forward the two regulation arm-chairs, and lighted all the candles provided. He then rang the bell and ordered liqueurs. There was evidently something in the nature of an entertainment about to take place in apartment No. 44 of the Httel de Moscou.

Before long a discreet knock announced the arrival of the expected visitor.

“Entrez!” cried Vassili; and De Chauxville stood before him, with a smile which in French is called crbne.

“A pleasure,” said Vassili, behind his wooden face, “that I did not anticipate in Tver.”

“And consequently one that carries its own mitigation. An unanticipated pleasure, mon ami, is always inopportune. I make no doubt that you were sorry to see me.”

“On the contrary. Will you sit?”

“I can hardly believe,” went on De Chauxville, taking the proffered chair, “that my appearance was opportune—on the principle, ha! ha! that a flower growing out of place is a weed. Gentlemen of the—eh—Home Office prefer, I know, to travel quietly!” He spread out his expressive hands as if smoothing the path of M. Vassili through this stony world. “Incognito,” he added guilelessly.

“One does not publish one’s name from the housetops,” replied the Russian, with a glimmer of pride in his eyes, “especially if it happen to be not quite obscure; but between friends, my dear baron—between friends.”

“Yes. Then what are you doing in Tver?” enquired De Chauxville, with engaging frankness.

“Ah, that is a long story. But I will tell you—never fear—I will tell you on the usual terms.”

“Viz?” enquired the Frenchman, lighting a cigarette.

Vassili accepted the match with a bow, and did likewise. He blew a guileless cloud of smoke toward the dingy ceiling.

“Exchange, my dear baron, exchange.”

“Oh, certainly,” replied De Chauxville, who knew that Vassili was in all probability fully informed as to his movements past and prospective. “I am going to visit some old friends in this Government—the Lanovitches, at Thors.”

“Ah!”

“You know them?”

Vassili raised his shoulders and made a little gesture with his cigarette, as much as to say, “Why ask?”

De Chauxville looked at his companion keenly. He was wondering whether this man knew that he—Claude de Chauxville—loved Etta Howard Alexis, and consequently hated her husband. He was wondering how much or how little this impenetrable individual knew and suspected.

“I have always said,” observed Vassili suddenly, “that for unmitigated impertinence give me a diplomatist.”

“Ah! And what would you desire that I should, for the same commodity, give you now?”

“A woman.”

There was a short silence in the room while these two birds of a feather reflected.

Suddenly Vassili tapped himself on the chest with his forefinger.

“It was I,” he said, “who crushed that very dangerous movement—the Charity League.”

“I know it.”

“A movement, my dear baron, to educate the moujik, if you please. To feed him and clothe him, and teach him—to be discontented with his lot. To raise him up and make a man of him. Pah! He is a beast. Let him be treated as such. Let him work. If he will not work, let him starve and die.”

“The man who cannot contribute toward the support of those above him in life is superfluous,” said De Chauxville glibly.

“Precisely. Now, my dear baron, listen to me!” The genial Vassili leaned forward and tapped with one finger on the knee of De Chauxville, as if knocking at the door of his attention.

“I am all ears, mon bon monsieur,” replied the Frenchman, rather coldly. He had just been reflecting that, after all, he did not want any favor from Vassili for the moment, and the manner of the latter was verging on the familiar.

“The woman—who—sold—me—the Charity League papers dined at my house in Paris—a fortnight ago,” said Vassili, with a staccato tap on his companion’s knee by way of emphasis to each word.

“Then, my friend, I cannot—congratulate—you—on the society—in—which you move,” replied De Chauxville, mimicking his manner.

“Bah! She was a princess!”

“A princess?”

“Yes, of your acquaintance, M. le Baron! And she came to my house with her—eh—husband—the Prince Paul Howard Alexis.”

This was news indeed. De Chauxville leaned back and passed his slim white hand across his brow with a slow pressure, as if wiping some writing from a slate—as if his forehead bore the writing of his thoughts and he was wiping it away. And the thoughts he thus concealed—who can count them? For thoughts are the quickest and the longest and the saddest things of this life. The first thought was that if he had known this three months earlier he could have made Etta marry him. And that thought had a thousand branches. With Etta for his wife he might have been a different man. One can never tell what the effect of an acquired desire may be. One can only judge by analogy, and it would seem that it is a frustrated desire that makes the majority of villains.

But the news coming, thus too late, only served an evil purpose. For in that flash of thought Claude de Chauxville saw Paul’s secrets given to him; Paul’s wealth meted out to him; Paul in exile; Paul dead in Siberia, where death comes easily; Paul’s widow Claude de Chauxville’s wife. He wiped all the thoughts away, and showed to Vassili a face that was as composed and impertinent as usual.

“You said ‘her—eh—husband,’” he observed. “Why? Why did you add that little ‘eh,’ my friend?”

Vassili rose and walked to the door that led through into his bedroom from the salon in which they were sitting. It was possible to enter the bedroom from another door and overhear any conversation that might be passing in the sitting-room. The investigation was apparently satisfactory, for the Russian came back. But he did not sit down. Instead, he stood leaning against the tall china stove.

“Needless to tell you,” he observed, “the antecedents of the—princess.”

“Quite needless.”

“Married seven years ago to Charles Sydney Bamborough,” promptly giving the unnecessary information which was not wanted.

De Chauxville nodded.

“Where is Sydney Bamborough?” asked Vassili, with his mask-like smile.

“Dead,” replied the other quietly.

“Prove it.”

De Chauxville looked up sharply. The cigarette dropped from his fingers to the floor. His face was yellow and drawn, with a singular tremble of the lips, which were twisted to one side.

“Good God!” he whispered hoarsely.

There was only one thought in his mind—a sudden wild desire to rise up and stand by Etta against the whole world. Verily we cannot tell what love may make of us, whither it may lead us. We only know that it never leaves us as it found us.

Then, leaning quietly against the stove, Vassili stated his case.

“Rather more than a year ago,” he said, “I received an offer of the papers connected with a great scheme in this country. After certain enquiries had been made I accepted the offer. I paid a fabulous price for the papers. They were brought to me by a lady wearing a thick veil—a lady I had never seen before. I asked no questions, and paid her the money. It subsequently transpired that the papers had been stolen, as you perhaps know, from the house of Count Stipan Lanovitch—the house to which you happen to be going—at Thors. Well, that is all ancient history. It is to be supposed that the papers were stolen by Sydney Bamborough, who brought them here—probably to this hotel, where his wife was staying. He handed her the papers, and she conveyed them to me in Paris. But before she reached Petersburg they would have been missed by Stipan Lanovitch, who would naturally suspect the man who had been staying in his house, Bamborough—a man with a doubtful reputation in the diplomatic world, a professed doer of dirty jobs. Foreseeing this, and knowing that the League was a big thing, with a few violent members on its books, Sydney Bamborough did not attempt to leave Russia by the western route. He probably decided to go through Nijni, down the Volga, across the Caspian, and so on to Persia and India. You follow me?”

“Perfectly!” answered De Chauxville coldly.

“I have been here a week,” went on the Russian spy, “making enquiries. I have worked the whole affair out, link by link, till the evening when the husband and wife parted. She went west with the papers. Where did he go?”

De Chauxville picked up the cigarette, looked at it curiously, as at a relic—the relic of the moment of strongest emotion through which he had ever passed—and threw it into the ash-tray. He did not speak, and after a moment Vassili went on, stating his case with lawyer-like clearness.

“A body was found on the steppe,” he said; “the body of a middle-aged man dressed as a small commercial traveller would dress. He had a little money in his pocket, but nothing to identify him. He was buried here in Tver by the police, who received their information by an anonymous post-card posted in Tver. The person who had found the body did not want to be implicated in any enquiry. Now, who found the body? Who was the dead man? Mrs. Sydney Bamborough has assumed that the dead man was her husband; on the strength of that assumption she has become a princess. A frail foundation upon which to build up her fortunes, eh?”

“How did she know that the body had been found?” asked De Chauxville, perceiving the weak point in his companion’s chain of argument.

“It was reported shortly in the local newspapers,” replied Vassili, “and repeated in one or two continental journals, as the police were of opinion that the man was a foreigner. Any one watching the newspapers would see it—otherwise the incident might pass unobserved.”

“And you think,” said De Chauxville, suppressing his excitement with an effort, “that the lady has risked every thing upon a supposition?”

“Knowing the lady, I do.”

De Chauxville’s dull eyes gleamed for a moment with an unwonted light. All the civilization of the ages will not eradicate the primary instincts of men—and one of these, in good and bad alike, is to protect women. The Frenchman bit the end of his cigarette, and angrily wiped the tobacco from his lips.

“She may have information of which you are ignorant,” he suggested.

“Precisely. It is that particular point which gives me trouble at the present moment. It is that that I wish to discover.”

De Chauxville looked up coolly. He saw his advantage.

“Hence your sudden flow of communicativeness?” he said.

Vassili nodded.

“You cannot find out for yourself, so you seek my help?” went on the Frenchman.

Again the Russian nodded his head.

“And your price?” said De Chauxville, drawing in his feet and leaning forward, apparently to study the pattern of the carpet. The action concealed his face. He was saving Etta, and he was ashamed of himself.

“When you have the information you may name your own price,” said the Russian coldly.

There was a long silence. Before speaking De Chauxville turned and took a glass of liqueur from the table. His hand was not quite steady. He raised the glass quickly and emptied it. Then he rose and looked at his watch. The silence was a compact.

“When the lady dined with you in Paris, did she recognize you?” he asked.

“Yes; but she did not know that I recognized her.”

For the moment they both overlooked Steinmetz.

De Chauxville stood reflecting.

“And your theory,” he said, “respecting Sydney Bamborough—what is it?”

“If he got away to Nijni and the Volga, it is probable that he is in Eastern Siberia or in Persia at this moment. He has not had time to get right across Asia yet.”

De Chauxville moved toward the door. With his fingers on the handle he paused again.

“I leave early to-morrow morning,” he said.

Vassili nodded, or rather he bowed, in his grand way.

Then De Chauxville went out of the room. They did not shake hands. There is sometimes shame among thieves.