Goslin alone remained silent and watchful.  From where he stood he could see the people entering and leaving the Grand Hotel.  He glanced impatiently at his watch, and then paced the room, his hand thoughtfully stroking his grey beard.  Only half an hour before he had alighted at the Gare du Nord, coming direct from far-off Glencardine, and had driven there in an auto-cab to keep an appointment made by telegram.  As he paced the big room, with its dark-green walls, its Turkey carpet, and sombre furniture, his companions regarded him in wonder.  They instinctively knew that he had some news of importance to impart.  There was one absentee.  Until his arrival Goslin refused to say anything.

The youngest of the four assembled at the table was the Italian, a rather thin, keen-faced, dark-moustached man of refined appearance. “Madonna mia!” he cried, raising his face to the Frenchman, “why, what has happened?  This is unusual.  Besides, why should we wait?  I’ve only just arrived from Turin, and haven’t had time to go to the hotel.  Let us get on. Avanti!”

“Not until he is present,” answered Goslin, speaking earnestly in French.  “I have a statement to make from Sir Henry.  But I am not permitted to make it until all are here.”  Then, glancing at his watch, he added, “His train was due at Est Station at 4.58.  He ought to be here at any moment.”

The shabby old man, by birth a Pole, still sat chafing his chilly fingers.  None who saw Antoine Volkonski, as he shuffled along the street, ever dreamed that he was head of the great financial house of Volkonski Freres of Petersburg, whose huge loans to the Russian Government during the war with Japan created a sensation throughout Europe, and surely no casual observer looking at that little assembly would ever entertain suspicion that, between them, they could practically dictate to the money-market of Europe.

The Italian seated next to him was the Commendatore Rudolphe Cusani, head of the wealthy banking firm of Montemartini of Rome, which ranked next to the Bank of Italy.  Of the remaining two, one was a Greek from Smyrna, and the other, a rather well-dressed man with longish grey hair, Josef Frohnmeyer of Hamburg, a name also to conjure with in the financial world.

The impatient Italian was urging Goslin to explain why the meeting had been so hastily summoned when, without warning, the door opened and a tall, distinguished man, with carefully trained grey moustache, and wearing a heavy travelling ulster, entered.

“Ah, my dear Baron!” cried the Italian, jumping from his chair and taking the new-comer’s hand, “we were waiting for you.”  And he drew a chair next to his.

The man addressed tossed his soft felt travelling hat aside, saying, “The ‘wire’ reached me at a country house outside Vienna, where I was visiting.  But I came instantly.”  And he seated himself, while the chair at the head of the table was taken by the stout Frenchman.