t is a relief," said the baroness; "but with all you gentlemen
smoking, I was afraid that I should faint."

"So?" said Sacovitch, with an altogether insolent disregard in his
inquiry. "Let us get to business."

"I am ready," Roncivalli answered, throwing himself anew into the
arm-chair.

"A moment," said a voice, which I recognized as Constance Pleyel's; "it
is very well to have the window open, but all the same we need not catch
our death of cold. Will you be good enough, Signor Roncivalli, to lower
the blind."

The signor arose and obeyed her, and as he did so I could see his long
figure between me and the whitewashed, lamplit ceiling of the room.
Before another word was spoken Hinge touched me again upon the elbow,
and I knew at once the meaning of his signal. We rose, both of us,
silently to our knees, and each found a crevice through which he could
command a view of the occupants of the room.

"The first thing, I take it," said Sacovitch, "is to decide that the
negotiations we are about to conclude are not likely to be broken by any
betrayal on either side."

"So far as I am concerned," said Roncivalli, "my being here is guarantee
enough. I am not risking my life for nothing, or, if I am, I shall know
the reason why."

At this moment Brunow broke in with an Italian-sounding phrase, and the
baroness interrupted him.

"Speak English," she said. "Herr Sacovitch has no Italian, and Miss
Pleyel no German. English is the one language which is understood by all
of us, and we may just as well have everything open and above-board."

With one eye glued to the lower interstice of the Venetian blind, I saw
the quintet all bowing and bobbing to each other at this with a Judas
politeness which was altogether charming to look at. Roncivalli, with
his back half turned towards me, was so near that I could have taken him
by the hair. A little removed from him, on the right, sat the baroness,
in a captivating little bonnet and gloves of pearl gray, smoothing one
hand over the other on her silk-clad knees with a purring satisfaction
in the charm of her own attire. At her side sat poor Constance Pleyel
with a wineglass in her left hand, looking into its last spot or two as
drearily as if she contemplated the dregs of her own wasted and
weary life. Beyond her again, and almost facing me, just seen across
Roncivalli's shoulders, sat Brunow, smoking at his ease, and toying with
his eyeglass with the fingers of both hands. Sacov