an upper floor. Their host was almost as famous as a connoisseur as for
his achievements in diplomacy, and the gallery was a large apartment in
which every article of furniture, as well as the paintings, tapestries
and specimens of pottery, was the careful choice of a thoroughly
cultivated taste.

"It isn't merely an art gallery; it's the most beautiful room in
America," murmured Mrs. Sanderson.

"I can well believe it. There's my favorite Vibert,--I wondered what had
become of it."

"It isn't surprising that the Secretary is making a great reputation
by his dealings with foreign powers. It's a poor ambassador who could
not be persuaded after an hour in this splendid room. The ordinary
affairs of life should not be mentioned here. A king's coronation would
not be out of place,--in fact, there's a chair in the corner against that
Gobelin that would serve the situation. The old gentleman by that cabinet
is the Baron von Marhof, the Ambassador from Austria-Hungary. He's a
brother-in-law of Count von Stroebel, who was murdered so horribly in a
railway carriage a few weeks ago."

"Ah, to be sure! I haven't seen the Baron in years. He has changed
little."

"Then you knew him,--in the old country?"

"Yes; I used to see him--when I was a boy," remarked Armitage.

Mrs. Sanderson glanced at Armitage sharply. She had dined at his ranch