erialist, was able to chat about the
resources of the Empire with an English politician of similar views,
whom he chanced never to have previously met. Altogether these parties
seemed to be the means of bringing together a series of most interesting
people, interesting not only in themselves, but in their relations to
one another. It was noticeable, however, that from this side of his
little gatherings Andrea Korust remained wholly apart. He admitted that
music and cheerful companionship were the only two things in life he
really cared for. Politics or matters of world import seemed to leave
him unmoved. If a serious subject of conversation were started at
supper-time he was frankly bored, and took no pains to hide the fact. It
is certain that whatever interesting topics were alluded to in his
presence, he remained entirely outside any understanding of them.
Mademoiselle Celaire, who was present most evenings, although with other
escorts, was puzzled. She could see nothing whatever to account for the
warning which she had received, and had at once passed on, as was her
duty, to the Baron de Grost. She failed, also, to understand the faint
but perceptible enlightenment to which Peter himself had admittedly
attained after that first evening. Take that important conversation, for
instance, between the French military _attache_ and the British general.
Without a doubt it was of interest, and especially so to the country
which she was sure claimed his allegiance, but it was equally without
doubt that Andrea Korust neither overheard a word of that conversation
nor betrayed the slightest curiosity concerning it. Mademoiselle Celaire
was a clever woman, and she had never felt so hopelessly at fault.
Illumination was to come, however--illumination, dramatic and complete.

The seventh and last of these famous supper parties was in full swing.
Notwithstanding the shaded candles, which left the faces of the guests a
little indistinct, the scene was a brilliant one. Mademoiselle Celaire
was wearing her famous diamonds, which shone through the gloom like
pin-pricks of fire; Garda Desmaines, the wonderful Garda, sat next to
her host, her bosom and hair on fire with jewels, yet with the most
wonderful light of all glowing in her eyes; a famous actor, who had
thrown his proverbial reticence to the winds, kept his immediate
neighbours in a state of semi-hysterical mirth; the clink of
wine-glasses, the laughter of beautiful women, the murm