immensely. Many people amuse us who are themselves amused in their
sleeve.

"And--er--the Sydney Bamboroughs," said the Frenchman, as if the name
had almost left his memory.

Karl Steinmetz lazily stretched out his arm and took up the _Morning
Post_. He unfolded the sheet slowly, and having found what he sought, he
read aloud:

"'His Excellency the Roumanian Ambassador gave a select dinner-party at
4 Craven Gardens, yesterday. Among the guests were the Baron de
Chauxville, Feneer Pasha, Lord and Lady Standover, Mrs. Sydney
Bamborough, and others.'"

Steinmetz threw the paper down and leant back in his chair.

"So, my dear friend," he said, "it is probable that you know more about
the Sydney Bamboroughs than I do."

If Claude de Chauxville was disconcerted he certainly did not show it.
His was a face eminently calculated to conceal whatever thought or
feeling might be passing through his mind. Of an even white
complexion--verging on pastiness--he was handsome in a certain
statuesque way. His features were always composed and dignified; his
hair, thin and straight, was never out of order, but ever smooth and
sleek upon his high, narrow brow. His eyes had that dulness which is
characteristic of many Frenchmen, and may perhaps be attributed to the
habitual enjoyment of too rich a cuisine and too many cigarettes.