Steinmetz knew that the Frenchman had recognized him before entering the room.  It was to be presumed that he had deliberately chosen to cross the threshold, knowing that a recognition was inevitable.  Karl Steinmetz went farther.  He suspected that De Chauxville had come to the Talleyrand Club, having heard that he was in England, with the purpose in view of seeking him out and warning him against Mrs. Sydney Bamborough.

“It would appear,” murmured the stout philosopher, “that we are about to work together for the first time.  But if there is one thing that I dislike more than the enmity of Claude de Chauxville it is his friendship.”

CHAPTER VII

OLD HANDS

Karl Steinmetz lifted his pen from the paper before him and scratched his forehead with his forefinger.

“Now, I wonder,” he said aloud, “how many bushels there are in a ton.  Ach! how am I to find out?  These English weights and measures, this English money, when there is a metrical system!”

He sat and hardly looked up when the clock struck seven.  It was a quiet room this in which he sat, the library of Paul’s London house.  The noise of Piccadilly reached his ears as a faint roar, not entirely unpleasant, but sociable and full of life.  Accustomed as he was to the great silence of Russia, where sound seems lost in space, the hum of a crowded humanity was a pleasant change to this philosopher, who loved his kind while fully recognizing its little weaknesses.

While he sat there still wondering how many bushels of seed made a ton, Paul Alexis came into the room.  The younger man was in evening dress.  He looked at the clock rather eagerly.

“Will you dine here?” he asked, and Steinmetz wheeled around in his chair.  “I am going out to dinner,” he explained further.

“Ah!” said the elder man.

“I am going to Mrs. Sydney Bamborough’s.”

Steinmetz bowed his head gravely.  He said nothing.  He was not looking at Paul, but at the pattern of the carpet.  There was a short silence.  Then Paul said, with entire simplicity: 

“I shall probably ask her to marry me.”

“And she will probably say yes.”

“I am not so sure about that,” said Paul, with a laugh.  For this man was without conceit.  He had gradually been forced to admit that there are among men persons whose natural inclination is toward evil, persons who value not the truth, nor hold by honesty.  But he was guileless enough to believe that women are not so.  He actually believed that women are truthful and open and honorable.  He believes it still, which is somewhat startling.  There are a few such dullards yet.  “I do not see why she should,” he went on gravely.  He was standing by the empty fire-place, a manly, upright figure; one who was not very clever, not brilliant at all, somewhat slow in his speech, but sure, deadly sure, in the honesty of his purpose.