“Herr Selingman has expressed the situation admirably,” Mr. Meyer declared approvingly.

“Very interesting, I’m sure,” Norgate murmured.  “There is one thing about you foreigners,” he added, with an envious sigh.  “The way you all speak the languages of other countries is wonderful.  Are you a Belgian, Mr. Meyer?”

“Half Belgian and half French.”

“But you speak English almost without accent,” Norgate remarked.

“In commerce,” Herr Selingman insisted, “that is necessary.  All my agents speak four languages.”

“You deserve to capture our trade,” Norgate sighed.

“To a certain extent, my young friend,” Selingman declared, “we mean to do it.  We are doing it.  And yet there is enough for us both.  There is trade enough for your millions and for mine.  So long as Germany and England remain friends, they can divide the commerce of the world between them.  It is our greatest happiness, we who have a business relying upon the good-will of the two nations, to think that year by year the clouds of discord are rolling away from between us.  Young sir, as a German citizen, I will drink a toast with you, an English one.  I drink to everlasting peace between my country and yours!”

Norgate drained his glass.  Selingman threw back his head as he followed suit, and smacked his lips appreciatively.

“And now,” the former remarked, rising to his feet, “I think I’ll go and turn in.  I dare say you two still have some business to talk about, especially if Mr. Meyer is leaving us shortly.”

Norgate made his way back to his compartment, undressed leisurely and climbed into the upper bunk.  For an hour or two he indulged in the fitful slumber usually engendered by night travelling.  At the frontier he sat up and answered the stereotyped questions.  Herr Selingman, in sky-blue pyjamas, and with face looking more beaming and florid than ever, poked his head cheerfully out of the lower bunk.

“Awake?” he enquired.

“Very much so,” Norgate yawned.

“I have a surprise,” Herr Selingman announced.  “Wait.”

Almost as he spoke, an attendant arrived from the buffet car with some soda-water.  Herr Selingman’s head vanished for a moment or two.  When he reappeared, he held two glasses in his hand.

“A whisky soda made in real English fashion,” he proclaimed triumphantly.  “A good nightcap, is it not?  Now we are off again.”

Norgate held out his hand for the tumbler.

“Awfully good of you,” he murmured.

“I myself,” Selingman continued, seated on the edge of the bunk, with his legs far apart to steady himself, “I myself enjoy a whisky soda.  It will be indeed a nightcap, so here goes.”

He drained his glass and set it down.  Norgate followed suit.  Selingman’s hand came up for the tumbler and Norgate was conscious of a curious mixture of sensations which he had once experienced before in the dentist’s chair.  He could see Selingman distinctly, and he fancied that he was watching him closely, but the rest of the carriage had become chaos.  The sound of the locomotive was beating hard upon the drums of his ears.  His head fell back.