In his apartment the genial Vassili threw more wood into the stove, drew forward the two regulation arm-chairs, and lighted all the candles provided.  He then rang the bell and ordered liqueurs.  There was evidently something in the nature of an entertainment about to take place in apartment No. 44 of the Hotel de Moscou.

Before long a discreet knock announced the arrival of the expected visitor.

“Entrez!” cried Vassili; and De Chauxville stood before him, with a smile which in French is called crane.

“A pleasure,” said Vassili, behind his wooden face, “that I did not anticipate in Tver.”

“And consequently one that carries its own mitigation.  An unanticipated pleasure, mon ami, is always inopportune.  I make no doubt that you were sorry to see me.”

“On the contrary.  Will you sit?”

“I can hardly believe,” went on De Chauxville, taking the proffered chair, “that my appearance was opportune—­on the principle, ha! ha! that a flower growing out of place is a weed.  Gentlemen of the—­eh—­Home Office prefer, I know, to travel quietly!” He spread out his expressive hands as if smoothing the path of M. Vassili through this stony world.  “Incognito,” he added guilelessly.

“One does not publish one’s name from the housetops,” replied the Russian, with a glimmer of pride in his eyes, “especially if it happen to be not quite obscure; but between friends, my dear baron—­between friends.”

“Yes.  Then what are you doing in Tver?” enquired De Chauxville, with engaging frankness.

“Ah, that is a long story.  But I will tell you—­never fear—­I will tell you on the usual terms.”

“Viz?” enquired the Frenchman, lighting a cigarette.

Vassili accepted the match with a bow, and did likewise.  He blew a guileless cloud of smoke toward the dingy ceiling.

“Exchange, my dear baron, exchange.”

“Oh, certainly,” replied De Chauxville, who knew that Vassili was in all probability fully informed as to his movements past and prospective.  “I am going to visit some old friends in this Government—­the Lanovitches, at Thors.”

“Ah!”

“You know them?”

Vassili raised his shoulders and made a little gesture with his cigarette, as much as to say, “Why ask?”

De Chauxville looked at his companion keenly.  He was wondering whether this man knew that he—­Claude de Chauxville—­loved Etta Howard Alexis, and consequently hated her husband.  He was wondering how much or how little this impenetrable individual knew and suspected.

“I have always said,” observed Vassili suddenly, “that for unmitigated impertinence give me a diplomatist.”

“Ah!  And what would you desire that I should, for the same commodity, give you now?”

“A woman.”

There was a short silence in the room while these two birds of a feather reflected.

Suddenly Vassili tapped himself on the chest with his forefinger.