rry," said he carelessly,
"even if they can themselves, which I doubt. But I do not understand how
it is that she is so much better off, or appears to be, since the death
of her husband."

"Ah, she is much better off, or appears to be, since the death of her
husband," said the stout man, in his slow Germanic way.

"Yes."

De Chauxville rose, stretched himself and yawned. Men are not always, be
it understood, on their best behavior at their club.

"Good-night," he said shortly.

"Good-night, my very dear friend."

After the Frenchman had left, Karl Steinmetz remained quite motionless
and expressionless in his chair, until such time as he concluded that De
Chauxville was tired of watching him through the glass door. Then he
slowly sat forward in his chair and looked back over his shoulder.

"Our friend," he muttered, "is afraid that Paul is going to marry this
woman. Now, I wonder why?"

These two had met before in a past which has little or nothing to do
with the present narrative. They had disliked each other with a
completeness partly bred of racial hatred, partly the outcome of diverse
interests. But of late years they had drifted apart. There was no reason
why the friendship, such as it was, should not have lapsed into a mere
bowing acquaintance. For these men were foreigners, understanding fully
the value of the bow as an interchange of masculine courtesy. Englishmen
bow badly.

Steinmetz knew that the Frenchman had recognized him before entering the
room. It was to be presumed that he had deliberately chosen to cross the
threshold, knowing that a recognition was inevitable. Karl Steinmetz
went farther. He suspected that De Chauxville had come to the Talleyrand
Club, having heard that he was in England, with the purpose in view of
seeking him out and warning him against Mrs. Sydney Bamborough.

"It would appear," murmured the stout philosopher, "that we are about to
work together for the first time. But if there is one thing that I
dislike more than the enmity of Claude de Chauxville it is his
friendship."

CHAPTER VII

OLD HANDS

Karl Steinmetz lifted his pen from the paper before him and scratched
his forehead with his forefinger.

"Now, I wonder," he said aloud, "how many bushels there are in a ton.
Ach! how am I to find out? These English weights and measures, this
English money, when there is a metrical system!"

He sat and hardly looked up when the clock struck seven. It was a quiet