e's Gate. Arnold found his way there
on foot, crossing Parliament Square in a slight drizzling rain,
through which the figures of the passers-by assumed a somewhat
phantasmal appearance. Around him was a glowing arc of lights, and,
dimly visible beyond, shadowy glimpses of the river. He rang the
bell with some hesitation at the house indicated by his
directions--a large gray stone building, old-fashioned, and without
any external signs of habitation. His summons, however, was answered
almost immediately by a man-servant who took his hat and coat.
"If you will step into the library for a moment, sir," he said, with
a slight foreign accent, "His Excellency will be there."
Arnold was immensely impressed by the room into which he was shown.
He stood looking around him for several minutes. The whole
atmosphere seemed to indicate a cultivated and luxurious taste, kept
in bounds by a certain not unpleasing masculine severity. The
coloring of the room was dark green, and the walls were everywhere
covered with prints and etchings, and trophies of the chase and war.
A huge easy-chair was drawn up to the fire, and by its side was a
table covered with books and illustrated papers. A black oak writing
desk stood open, and a huge bowl of violets set upon it was guarded
by an ivory statuette of the Venus of Milo. The furniture was
comfortably worn. There was a faint atmosphere of cigarette
smoke,--the whole apartment was impregnated by an intensely liveable
atmosphere. The glowing face of a celebrated Parisian _danseuse_
laughed at him from over the mantelpiece. Arnold was engaged in
examining it when Sabatini entered.
"A thousand apologies, my dear Mr. Chetwode," he said softly. "I see
you pass your time pleasantly. You admire the divine Fatime?"
"The face is beautiful," Arnold admitted. "I am afraid I was a few
minutes early. It began to rain and I walked fast."
Sabatini smiled. A butler had followed him into the room, bearing on
a tray two wine-glasses full of clear yellow liquid.
"Vermouth and one tiny cigarette," Sabatini suggested,--"the best
_aperetif_ in the world. Permit me, Mr. Chetwode--to our better
acquaintance!"
"I never need an _aperetif_," Arnold answered, raising the
wine-glass to his lips, "but I will drink to your toast, with
pleasure."
Sabatini lit his cigarette, and, leaning slightly against the back
of a chair, stood with folded arms looking at the picture over the
fireplace.
"Your remark ab
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