He was wrapped in a dark mantle from head to foot, and he wore a wide-brimmed hat pulled right over his eyes.  He did not remove either as he addressed me without further preamble.

“You are an interpreter, Sir?” he queried, speaking very rapidly and in sharp commanding tones.

“At your service,” I replied.

“My name is Ernest Berty.  I want you to come with me at once to my house.  I require your services as intermediary between myself and some men who have come to see me on business.  These men whom I wish you to see are Russians,” he added, I fancied as an afterthought, “but they speak English fluently.”

I suppose that I looked just as I felt—­somewhat dubious owing to the lateness of the hour and the darkness of the night, not to speak of the abominable weather, for he continued with marked impatience: 

“It is imperative that you should come at once.  Though my house is at some little distance from here, I have a chaise outside which will also bring you back, and,” he added significantly, “I will pay you whatever you demand.”

“It is very late,” I demurred, “the weather—­”

“Your fee, man!” he broke in roughly, “and let’s get on!”

“Five hundred francs,” I said at a venture.

“Come!” was his curt reply.  “I will give you the money as we drive along.”

I wished I had made it a thousand; apparently my services were worth a great deal to him.  However, I picked up my mantle and my hat, and within a few seconds was ready to go.  I shouted up to Mme. Bournon that I would not be home for a couple of hours, but that as I had my key I need not disturb her when I returned.

Once outside the door I almost regretted my ready acquiescence in this nocturnal adventure.  The rain was beating down unmercifully, and at first I saw no sign of a vehicle; but in answer to my visitor’s sharp command I followed him down the street as far as the market square, at the corner of which I spied the dim outline of a carriage and a couple of horses.

Without wasting too many words, M. Ernest Berty bundled me into the carriage, and very soon we were on the way.  The night was impenetrably dark and the chaise more than ordinarily rickety.  I had but little opportunity to ascertain which way we were going.  A small lanthorn fixed opposite to me in the interior of the carriage, and flickering incessantly before my eyes, made it still more impossible for me to see anything outside the narrow window.  My companion sat beside me, silent and absorbed.  After a while I ventured to ask him which way we were driving.

“Through the town,” he replied curtly.  “My house is just outside Divonne.”

Now, Divonne is, as I knew, quite close to the Swiss frontier.  It is a matter of seven or eight kilometres—­an hour’s drive at the very least in this supremely uncomfortable vehicle.  I tried to induce further conversation, but made no headway against my companion’s taciturnity.  However, I had little cause for complaint in another direction.  After the first quarter of an hour, and when we had left the cobblestones of the city behind us, he drew a bundle of notes from his pocket, and by the flickering light of the lanthorn he counted out ten fifty-franc notes and handed them without another word to me.