having lighted it smoked for some moments in silence. The servant
brought the coffee, which he drank thoughtfully. Steinmetz was leaning
back in his deep chair, with his legs crossed. He was gazing into the
fire, which burnt brightly, although it was nearly May. The habits of
the Talleyrand Club are almost continental. The rooms are always too
warm. The silence was that of two men knowing each other well.

"And why not Mrs. Sydney Bamborough?" asked Steinmetz suddenly.

"Why not, indeed?" replied De Chauxville. "It is no affair of mine. A
wise man reduces his affairs to a minimum, and his interest in the
affairs of his neighbor to less. But I thought it would interest you."

"Thanks."

The tone of the big man in the arm-chair was not dry. Karl Steinmetz
knew better than to indulge in that pastime. Dryness is apt to parch the
fount of expansiveness.

De Chauxville's attention was apparently caught by an illustration in a
weekly paper lying open on the table near to him. Your shifty man likes
something to look at. He did not speak for some moments. Then he threw
the paper aside.

"Who was Sydney Bamborough, at any rate?" he asked, with a careless
assumption of a slanginess which is affected by society in its decadent
periods.

"So far as I remember," answered Steinmetz, "he was something in the
Diplomatic Service."