"In diplomacy," the Baron remarked blandly, "as also, I believe, in affairs of commerce, the dinner-table is frequently chosen as a fitting place for the commencement of delicate negotiations. For a bargain—no! But when three men—take ourselves, for instance—have a matter of some importance to discuss, I can conceive no better opportunity for the preliminary—skirmishing, shall I say?—than the present."

I raised my glass, and looked thoughtfully at the pale amber wine bubbling up from the stem.

"From a certain point of view," I answered, "I entirely agree with you. Yet you must remember that the host has always the advantage."

"In the present case," the Baron said with a smile, "that amounts to nothing, for you practically gave me my answer before we sat down to dinner. If I am able to induce you to change your mind—well, so much the better. If not—well, I can have nothing to complain of."

"I am glad," I answered, "that you appreciate our position. With regard to the present custody of the child, which I take it is what you want to discuss with us, our minds are practically made up. My friend and I have both agreed that we will continue the charge of her until she is claimed by someone who is in a position to do so openly—someone, in short, who has a legal right."

The Baron nodded gravely.

"An excellent decision," he said. "No one could possibly quarrel with it. Yet it is a privilege to be able to tell you some facts which may perhaps affect your point of view. I can explain to you why this open claim is not made."

"We are here," I answered, "to listen to whatever you may have to say."

We—Allan and I—were dining with the Baron at Claridge's. An appointment, which he had begged us to make, had been changed into a dinner invitation at his earnest request. There was a likelihood, he told us, of his being summoned abroad at any moment, and he was particularly anxious not to leave the hotel pending the arrival of a cablegram. So far his demeanour had been courtesy and consideration itself, but under the man's geniality and almost excessive bonhomie both Allan and myself were conscious of a certain nervous impatience, only partially concealed. Whatever proposal he might have to make to us, our acceptance of it was without doubt a matter of great importance to him. The more we realized this, the more we wondered.

"I only wish," he said with emphasis, "that it was within my power to lay the cards upon the table before you, to tell you the whole truth. I do not think then that you would hesitate for a single second. But that I cannot do. The honour of a great house, Mr. Greatson, is involved in this matter, into which you have been so strangely drawn. I must leave blanks in my story which you must fill in for yourselves, you and Mr. Mabane. There are things which I may not—dare not—tell you. If I could, you would wonder no longer that those who desire to take over the charge of the child wish to do so without publicity, and without any appeal to the courts."

"The Archduchess," I remarked, "gave me some hint as to the nature of these difficulties."

The Baron emptied his glass and called for another bottle of wine. Then he looked carefully around him, a quite unnecessary precaution, for our table was in a remote corner of the room, and there were very few dining.

"It is no longer," he said, "a matter of surmise with us as to who the child you call Isobel de Sorrens really is. She is of the House of Waldenburg. She carries her descent written in her face, a hall-mark no one could deny. Upon the Archduchess and others of her great family must rest always the shadow of a grave stigma so long as the child remains in the hands of strangers, an alien from her own country. The Archduchess wishes at once, and quietly, to assume the charge of her. She is conscious of your services; she feels that you have probably saved the child from a fate which it is not easy to contemplate calmly. She authorizes me, therefore, to treat with you in the most generous fashion."

"That is a phrase," I remarked, "which I do not altogether understand."

"Later," the Baron said, with a meaning look, "I will make myself clear. In the meantime, let me recommend this soufflÉ. Mr. Mabane, you are drinking nothing. Would you prefer your wine a shade colder?"

"Not for me," Allan declared. "I prefer champagne at its natural temperature; the wine is far too good to have its flavour frozen out of it. Apropos of what you were saying, Baron, there is one question which I should like to ask you. Why was Major Delahaye sent to St. Argueil for Isobel, and what was he supposed to do with her?"

I do not think that the Baron liked the question. He hesitated for several moments before he answered it.

"Major Delahaye was not sent," he said. "He went on his own account. He was the only person who knew the child's whereabouts."

"And what do you suppose his object was in bringing her away from the convent?" Allan persisted.

"I do not know," the Baron answered. "All I can say is that it pleases me vastly more to find the child in your keeping than in his."

"Was the man who shot him," I asked, "concerned in the child's earlier history?"

"I cannot place him at all," the Baron answered. "I should imagine that his quarrel with Major Delahaye was a personal one, and had no bearing upon the child. Few men had more enemies than Delahaye. One does not wish to speak ill of the dead, but he was a bully and a brute all his days."

A servant in plain black livery brought a sealed note to our host, and stood respectfully by his side while he read it. It obviously consisted of but a few words, yet the Baron continued to hold it in front of him for nearly a minute. Finally, he crushed it in his hand, and dismissed the servant.

"There is no answer," he said. "I shall wait upon her Highness in an hour."

Our dinner was over. Both Mabane and myself had declined dessert. Our host rose.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I have ordered coffee in the smoking-room. The head-waiter has told me of some wonderful brandy, and I have some cigars which I am anxious for you to try. Will you come this way?"

We were the only occupants of the smoking-room. The Baron appropriated a corner, and left us to fetch the cigars. Mabane lit a cigarette and leaned back in an easy-chair.

"It seems to me, Arnold," he said, "that you are like the man who found what he went out for to see. You wanted tragedy—and you came very near it. I do not quite see what the end of all these things will be. Our host——"

"There is a disappointment in store for him, I fancy," I interrupted. "He is a very faithful servant of the Archduchess, and he has worked hard for her. From his point of view his arguments are reasonable enough. All that he says is plausible—and yet—one feels that there is something behind it all. Allan, I don't trust one of these people! I can't!"

"Nor I," Allan answered softly, for the Baron had already entered the room.

He brought with him some wonderful cabanas, and immediately afterwards coffee and liqueurs were served. The moment the waiter had disappeared, he threw off all reserve.

"Come," he said, "I am no longer your host. We meet here on equal terms. I have an offer to make to you which I think you will find astonishing. The fact is, her Highness is anxious to run no risk of any resurrection of a certain scandal. She has commissioned me to beg your acceptance—you and your friend—of these," he laid down two separate pieces of paper upon the table. "She wishes to relieve you as soon as possible to-night, if you can arrange it—of the care of a certain young lady. There need be no hesitation about your acceptance. Royalty, as you know, has special privileges so far as regards bounty, and her Highness appreciates most heartily the care and kindness which the child has received at your hands."

I stared at my piece of paper. It was a cheque for five thousand pounds. I looked at Mabane's. It was a cheque for a like amount. Then I looked up at the Baron. The perspiration was standing out upon his forehead. He was watching us as a man might watch one in whose hands lay the power of life or death. I resisted my first impulse, which was simply to tear the cheque in two. I simply pushed it back across the table.

"Baron," I said, "if this is meant as a recompense for any kindness which we have shown to a friendless child, it is unnecessary and unacceptable. If it is meant," I added more slowly, "for a bribe, it is not enough."

"Call it what you will," he answered quickly. "Name your own price for the child—brought here—to-night."

"No price that you or your mistress could pay, Baron," I answered quietly. "I told you my ultimatum two hours ago. The child remains with us until she is claimed by one who has a legal right, and is not afraid to invoke the law."

"But I have explained the position," the Baron protested. "You must understand why we cannot bring such a matter as this into the courts."

"Your story is ingenious, and, pardon me, it may be true," I answered. "We require proof!"

The Baron's face was not pleasant to look upon.

"You doubt my word, sir—my word, and the word of the Archduchess?"

I rose to my feet. Mabane followed my example. I felt that a storm was pending.

"Baron," I said, "there are some causes which make strange demands upon the best of us. A man may lie to save a woman's honour, or, if he be a politician, for the good of his country. I cannot discuss this matter any further with you. My sole regret is that we ever discussed it at all. My friend and I must wish you good-night."

"By heavens, you shall not go!" the Baron exclaimed. "What right have you to the child? None at all! Her Highness wishes to be generous. It pleases you to flout her generosity. Mr. Arnold Greatson, you are a fool! Don't you see that you are a pigmy, who has stolen through the back door into the world where great things are dealt with? You have no place there. You cannot keep the child away from us. You have no influence, no money. You are nobody. If you think——"

Mabane interposed.

"Baron," he said, "if you were not still, in a sense, our host, I should knock you down. As it is, permit me to tell you that you are talking nonsense."

The Baron drew a sharp, quick breath.

"You are right," he said shortly. "I am a fool to discuss this with you at all. It is not worth while. The Archduchess, out of kindness, would have treated you as friends. You decline! Good! You shall be treated—as you deserve."

The Baron threw open the door and bowed us out. The commissionaire helped us on with our coats and summoned a hansom. We were just driving off, when a man in a long travelling coat, who had been standing outside the swing-door of the hotel, calmly swung himself up into the cab and motioned to us to make room. I stared at him in blank amazement.

"Hullo!" I exclaimed. "What——"

"It is I, my friend," Mr. Grooten answered calmly. "Tell the man to drive to your rooms."