e short, broad-shouldered man looking forth into the street, in
expectancy, was Monsieur Goslin. He had been speaking, and his words had
evidently caused some surprise, even alarm, among his companions, for
they now exchanged glances in silence.

Three of the men were well-dressed and prosperous-looking; while the
fourth, a shrivelled old fellow, in faded clothes which seemed several
sizes too large for him, looked needy and ill-fed as he nervously chafed
his thin bony hands.

Next moment they all began chatting in French, though from their
countenances it was plain that they were of various nationalities--one
being German, the other Italian, and the third, a sallow-faced man, had
the appearance of a Levantine.

Goslin alone remained silent and watchful. From where he stood he could
see the people entering and leaving the Grand Hotel. He glanced
impatiently at his watch, and then paced the room, his hand thoughtfully
stroking his grey beard. Only half an hour before he had alighted at the
Gare du Nord, coming direct from far-off Glencardine, and had driven
there in an auto-cab to keep an appointment made by telegram. As he
paced the big room, with its dark-green walls, its Turkey carpet, and
sombre furniture, his companions regarded him in wonder. They
instinctively knew that he had some news of importance to impart. There
was one absentee. Until his arrival Goslin refused to say anything.

The youngest of the four assembled at the table was the Italian, a
rather thin, keen-faced, dark-moustached man of refined appearance.
"_Madonna mia!_" he cried, raising his face to the Frenchman, "why, what
has happened? This is unusual. Besides, why should we wait? I've only
just arrived from Turin, and haven't had time to go to the hotel. Let us
get on. _Avanti!_"

"Not until he is present," answered Goslin, speaking earnestly in
French. "I have a statement to make from Sir Henry. But I am not
permitted to make it until all are here." Then, glancing at his watch,
he added, "His train was due at Est Station at 4.58. He ought to be here
at any moment."

The shabby old man, by birth a Pole, still sat chafing his chilly
fingers. None who saw Antoine Volkonski, as he shuffled along the
street, ever dreamed that he was head of the great financial house of
Volkonski Freres of Petersburg, whose huge loans to the Russian
Government during the war with Japan created a sensation throughout
Europe, and surely no casual observer looking