"Count Wachtmann?" interrogated Kennedy, rising.

"The same," he replied easily, with a glance of inquiry at us.

"My friend and I are from the Star" said Kennedy.

"Ah! Gentlemen of the press?" He elevated his eyebrows the
fraction of an inch. It was so politely contemptuous that I could
almost have throttled him.

"We are waiting to see Mr. Brixton," explained Kennedy.

"What is the latest from the Near East?" Wachtmann asked, with the
air of a man expecting to hear what he could have told you
yesterday if he had chosen.

There was a movement of the portieres, and a woman entered. She
stopped a moment. I knew it was Miss Brixton. She had recognised
Kennedy, but her part was evidently to treat him as a total
stranger.

"Who are these men, Conrad?" she asked, turning to Wachtmann.

"Gentlemen of the press, I believe, to see your father, Yvonne,"
replied the count.

It was evident that it had not been mere newspaper talk about this
latest rumored international engagement.

"How did you enjoy it?" he asked, noticing the title of a history