They exchanged very serious bows with "Mussoor" Weishelm, and Curfoot retired.

In excellent French Weishelm inquired whether they desired supper; and learning that they did not, bowed smilingly and bade them welcome:

"You are at home, gentlemen; the house is yours. If it pleases you to sup, we offer you our hospitality; if you care to play, the _salon_ is at your disposal, or, if you prefer, a private room. Yonder is the buffet; there are electric bells at your elbow. You are at home," he repeated, clicked his heels together, bowed, and took his leave.

Sengoun dropped into a comfortable chair and sent a waiter for caviar, toast, and German champagne.

Neeland lighted a cigarette, seated himself, and looked about him curiously.

Over in a corner on a sofa a rather pretty woman, a cigarette between her jewelled fingers, was reading an evening newspaper. Two others in the adjoining room, young and attractive, their feet on the fireplace fender, conversed together over a sandwich, a gla.s.s of the widely advertised Dubonnet, and another of the equally advertised Bon Lait Maggi--as serenely and as comfortably as though they were by their own firesides.

"Perhaps they are," remarked Sengoun, plastering an oblong of hot toast with caviar. "Birds of this kind nest easily anywhere."

Neeland continued to gaze toward the _salon_ where play was in progress. There did not seem to be many people there. At a small table he recognised Brandes and Stull playing what appeared to be bridge whist with two men whom he had never before seen. There were no women playing.

As he watched the round, expressionless face of Brandes, who was puffing a long cigar screwed tightly into the corner of his thin-lipped mouth, it occurred to him somewhat tardily what Rue Carew had said concerning personal danger to himself if any of these people believed him capable of reconstructing from memory any of the stolen plans.

He had not thought about that specific contingency; instinct alone had troubled him a little when he first entered the Cafe des Bulgars.

However, his unquiet eyes could discover nothing of either Kestner or Breslau; and, somehow, he did not even think of encountering Ilse Dumont in such a place. As for Brandes and Stull, they did not recognise him at all.

So, entirely rea.s.sured once more by the absence of Ali-Baba and Golden Beard, and of Scheherazade whom he had no fear of meeting, Neeland ate his caviar with a relish and examined his surroundings.

Of course it was perfectly possible that the stolen papers had been brought here. There were three other floors in the building, too, and he wondered what they were used for.

Sengoun's appet.i.te for conflict waned as he ate and drank; and a violent desire to gamble replaced it.

"You poke about a bit," he said to Neeland. "Talk to that girl over there and see what you can learn. As for me, I mean to start a little flirtation with Mademoiselle Fortuna. Does that suit you?"

If Sengoun wished to play it was none of Neeland's business.

"Do you think it an honest game?" he asked, doubtfully.

"With negligible stakes all first-cla.s.s gamblers are honest."

"If I were you, Sengoun, I wouldn't drink anything more."

"Excellent advice, old fellow!" emptying his goblet with satisfaction.

And, rising to his firm and graceful height, he strolled away toward the _salon_ where play progressed amid the most decorous and edifying of atmospheres.

Neeland watched him disappear, then he glanced curiously at the girl on the sofa who was still preoccupied with her newspaper.

So he rose, sauntered about the room examining the few pictures and bronzes, modern but excellent. The carpet under foot was thick and soft, but, as he strolled past the girl who seemed to be so intently reading, she looked up over her paper and returned his civil recognition of her presence with a slight smile.

As he appeared inclined to linger, she said with pleasant self-possession:

"These newspaper rumours, monsieur, are becoming too persistent to amuse us much longer. War talk is becoming _vieux jeu_."

"Why read them?" inquired Neeland with a smile.

"Why?" She made a slight gesture. "One reads what is printed, I suppose."

"Written and printed by people who know no more about the matter in question than you and I, mademoiselle," he remarked, still smiling.

"That is perfectly true. Why is it worth while for anyone to search for truth in these days when everyone is paid to conceal it?"

"Oh," he said, "not everyone."

"No; some lie naturally and without pay," she admitted indifferently.

"But there are still others. For example, mademoiselle, yourself."

"I?" She laughed, not troubling to refute the suggestion of her possible truthfulness.

He said:

"This--club--is furnished in excellent taste."

"Yes; it is quite new."

"Has it a name?"

"I believe it is called the Cercle Extranationale. Would monsieur also like to know the name of the club cat?"

They both laughed easily, but he could make nothing of her.

"Thank you," he said; "and I fear I have interrupted your reading----"

"I have read enough lies; I am quite ready to tell you a few. Shall I?"

"You are most amiable. I have been wondering what the other floors in this building are used for."

"Private apartments," she replied smiling, looking him straight in the eyes. "Now you don't know whether I've told you the truth or not; do you?"

"Of course I know."

"Which, then?"

"The truth."

She laughed and indicated a chair; and he seated himself.

"Who is the dark, nice-looking gentleman accompanying you?" she enquired.

"How could you see him at all through your newspaper?"

"I poked a hole, of course."

"To look at him or at me?"