“I should say we were safe here from knocking against any of our friends!” Norgate observed.  “Anyhow, the beer’s all right.”

They were served with light-coloured beer in tall, chased tumblers.  Selingman eyed his with approval.

“A nation,” he declared, “which brews beer like this, deserves well of the world.  You did wisely, Norgate, to become ever so slightly associated with us.  Now examine carefully these hors d’oeuvres.  I have talked with Karl, the head-waiter.  Instead of eighteen pence, we shall pay three shillings each for our dinner.  The whole resources of the establishment are at our disposal.  Fresh tins of delicatessen, you perceive.  Do not be afraid that you will go-away hungry.”

“I am more afraid,” Norgate grumbled, “that I shall go away sick.  However!”

“You may be interested to hear,” announced Selingman, glancing up, “that our visit is not in vain.  You perceive the two men entering?  The nearest one is a Bulgarian.  He is a creature of mine.  The other is brought here by him to meet us.  It is good.”

The newcomers made their way along the room.  One, the Bulgarian, was short and dark.  He wore a well-brushed blue serge suit with a red tie, and a small bowler hat.  He was smoking a long, brown cigarette and he carried a bundle of newspapers.  Behind him came a youth with a pale, sensitive face and dark eyes, ill-dressed, with the grip of poverty upon him, from his patched shoes to his frayed collar and well-worn cap.  Nevertheless, he carried himself as though indifferent to these things.  His companion stopped short as he neared the table at which the two men were sitting, and took off his hat, greeting Selingman with respect.

“My friend Stralhaus!” Selingman exclaimed.  “It goes well, I trust?  You are a stranger.  Let me introduce to you my secretary, Mr. Francis Norgate.”

Stralhaus bowed and turned to his young companion.

“This,” he said, “is the young man with whom you desired to speak.  We will sit down if we may.  Sigismund, this is the great Herr Selingman, philanthropist and millionaire, with his secretary, Mr. Norgate.  We take dinner with him to-night.”

The youth shook hands without enthusiasm.  His manner towards Selingman was cold.  At Norgate he glanced once or twice with something approaching curiosity.  Stralhaus proceeded to make conversation.

“Our young friend,” he explained, addressing Norgate, “is an exile in London.  He belongs to an unfortunate country.  He is a native of Bosnia.”

The boy’s lip curled.

“It is possible,” he remarked, “that Mr. Norgate has never even heard of my country.  He is very little likely to know its history.”

“On the contrary,” Norgate replied, “I know it very well.  You have had the misfortune, during the last few years, to come under Austrian rule.”

“Since you put it like that,” the boy declared, “we are friends.  I am one of those who cry out to Heaven in horror at the injustice which has been done.  We love liberty, we Bosnians.  We love our own people and our own institutions, and we hate Austria.  May you never know, sir, what it is to be ruled by an alien race!”