"I came over for a bit of racing. Awfully glad to see you. Can't we dine
together? I go back to-morrow." Verisschenzko put his arm through Denzil
Ardayre's and drew him in to the Cafe de Paris, at the door of which they
had chanced to meet.

"I had another guest, but she can be consoled with some of Midas' food,
and I want to talk to you; were you going to eat alone?"

"A fellow threw me over; I meant to have just a snack and go on to a
theatre. It is good running across you--I thought you were miles away!"

Verisschenzko spoke to the head waiter, and gave him directions as to the
disposal of the lovely lady who would presently arrive, and then he went
on to his table, rather at the top, in a fairly secluded corner.

The few people who were already dining--it was early on this May
night--looked at Denzil Ardayre--he was such a refreshing sight of health
and youth, so tall and fit and English, with his brown smooth head and
fearless blue eyes, gay and debonnaire. One could see that he played
cricket and polo, and any other game that came along, and that not a
muscle of his frame was out of condition. He had "soldier" written upon
him--young, gallant, cavalry soldier. Verisschenzko appreciated him;
nothing complete, human or inanimate, left him unconscious of its
meaning. They knew one another very well--they had been at Oxford and
later had shot bears together in the Russian's far-off home.

They talked for a while of casual things, and then Verisschenzko said:

"Some relations of yours are here--Sir John Ardayre and his particularly