The Honourable Nigel Kingley smiled lazily from the depths of his
easy-chair. He was a young Englishman of normal type, long-limbed,
clean-shaven, with good features, a humorous mouth and keen grey eyes.

"In actual years," he admitted, "I may have the advantage of you two,
but so far as regards the qualities of youth, Karschoff is the youngest
man here. Besides, no one could refuse him anything."

"It is a subterfuge," the Prince objected, "but if I must go, I will go
presently. We will wait five minutes, in case Providence should be kind
to us."

The three men relapsed into silence. They were seated in a comfortable
recess of the card room of the St. Philip's Club. The atmosphere of the
apartment seemed redolent with suggestions of faded splendour. There was
a faint perfume of Russian calf from the many rows of musty volumes
which still filled the stately bookcases. The oil paintings which hung
upon the walls belonged to a remote period. In a distant corner, four
other men were playing bridge, speechless and almost motionless, the
white faces of two of them like cameos under the electric light and
against the dark walls. There was no sound except the soft patter of the
cards and the subdued movements of a servant preparing another bridge
table by the side of the three men. Then the door of the room was
quietly opened and closed. A man of youthful middle-age, carefully
dressed, with a large, clean-shaven face, blue eyes, and fair hair
sprinkled with grey, came towards them. He was well set up, almost
anxiously ingratiating in manner.

"You see now what Providence has sent," Sir Daniel Harker observed under
his breath.