"It would appear," murmured the stout philosopher, "that we are about to
work together for the first time. But if there is one thing that I
dislike more than the enmity of Claude de Chauxville it is his
friendship."




CHAPTER VII


OLD HANDS

Karl Steinmetz lifted his pen from the paper before him and scratched
his forehead with his forefinger.

"Now, I wonder," he said aloud, "how many bushels there are in a ton.
Ach! how am I to find out? These English weights and measures, this
English money, when there is a metrical system!"

He sat and hardly looked up when the clock struck seven. It was a quiet
room this in which he sat, the library of Paul's London house. The noise
of Piccadilly reached his ears as a faint roar, not entirely unpleasant,
but sociable and full of life. Accustomed as he was to the great silence
of Russia, where sound seems lost in space, the hum of a crowded
humanity was a pleasant change to this philosopher, who loved his kind
while fully recognizing its little weaknesses.

While he sat there still wondering how many bushels of seed made a ton,
Paul Alexis came into the room. The younger man was in evening dress. He