"The old Stamm Schloss," he muttered,--"a foot on the old soil once more!
and an entrance into the great arena with hands unfettered. Is it
possible!--is it?--is it?"

At this moment the door-bell of the apartment rang, and a servant whom
Graham had hired at Paris as a _laquais de place_ announced "Ce
Monsieur."

Graham hurried the letter into his portfolio, and said, "You mean the
person to whom I am always at home?"

"The same, Monsieur."

"Admit him, of course."

There entered a wonderfully thin man, middle-aged, clothed in black, his
face cleanly shaven, his hair cut very short, with one of those faces
which, to use a French expression, say "nothing." It was absolutely
without expression: it had not even, despite its thinness, one salient
feature. If you had found yourself anywhere seated next to that man,
your eye would have passed him over as too insignificant to notice; if at
a cafe, you would have gone on talking to your friend without lowering
your voice. What mattered it whether a _bete_ like that overheard or
not? Had you been asked to guess his calling and station, you might have
said, minutely observing the freshness of his clothes and the undeniable
respectability of his _tout ensemble_, "He must be well off, and with no
care for customers on his mind,--a ci-devant chandler who has retired on
a legacy."