In the midst of these, as in his element, moved the Baron Claude de Chauxville, smiling his courteous, ready smile, which his enemies called a grin.  He took up less room than the majority of the men around him; he succeeded in passing through narrower places, and jostled fewer people.  In a word, he proved to his own satisfaction, and to the discomfiture of many a younger man, his proficiency in the gentle art of getting on in the world.

Not far from him stood a stout gentleman of middle age, with a heavy fair mustache brushed upward on either side.  This man had an air of distinction which was notable even in this assembly; for there were many distinguished people present, and a Frenchman of note plays his part better than do we dull, self-conscious islanders.  This man looked like a general, so upright was he, so keen his glance, so independent the carriage of his head.

He stood with his hands behind his back, looking gravely on at the social festivity.  He bowed and raised his hat to many, but he entered into conversation with none.

“Ce Vassili,” he heard more than once whispered, “c’est un homme dangereux.”

And he smiled all the more pleasantly.

Now, if a very keen observer had taken the trouble to ignore the throng and watch two persons only, that observer might have discovered the fact that Claude de Chauxville was slowly and purposely making his way toward the man called Vassili.

De Chauxville knew and was known of many.  He had but recently arrived from London.  He found himself called upon to shake hands a l’anglais with this one and that, giving all and sundry his impressions of the perfidious Albion with a verve and neatness truly French.  He went from one to the other with perfect grace and savoir-faire, and each change of position brought him nearer to the middle-aged man with upturned mustache, upon whom his movements were by no means lost.

Finally De Chauxville bumped against the object of his quest—­possibly, indeed, the object of his presence at the Concours Hippique.  He turned with a ready apology.

“Ah!” he exclaimed; “the very man I was desiring to see.”

The individual known as “ce Vassili”—­a term of mingled contempt and distrust—­bowed very low.  He was a plain commoner, while his interlocutor was a baron.  The knowledge of this was subtly conveyed in his bow.

“How can I serve M. le Baron?” he enquired in a voice which was naturally loud and strong, but had been reduced by careful training to a tone inaudible at the distance of a few paces.

“By following me to the Cafe Tantale in ten minutes,” answered De Chauxville, passing on to greet a lady who was bowing to him with the labored grace of a Parisienne.