Two men were talking, and evidently the matter under discussion was of importance, for they spoke with a kind of dogged deliberation, and the long pauses in the dialogue lent color to the belief that some weighty matter was in debate.  The beat of the rain on the balcony and its steady rattle in the spout intervened to dull the sound of voices, but presently one of the speakers, with an impatient exclamation, rose, opened the small glass-paned door a few inches, peered out, and returned to his seat with an exclamation of relief.  Armitage had dropped down the ladder half a dozen rounds as he heard the latch snap in the door.  He waited an instant to make sure he had not been seen, then crept back to the balcony and found that the slight opening in the door made it possible for him to see as well as hear.

“It’s stifling in this hole,” said Chauvenet, drawing deeply upon his cigarette and blowing a cloud of smoke.  “If you will pardon the informality, I will lay aside my coat.”

He carefully hung the garment upon the back of his chair to hold its shape, then resumed his seat.  His companion watched him meanwhile with a certain intentness.

“You take excellent care of your clothes, my dear Jules.  I never have been able to fold a coat without ruining it.”

The rain was soaking Armitage thoroughly, but its persistent beat covered any slight noises made by his own movements, and he was now intent upon the little room and its occupants.  He observed the care with which the man kept close to his coat, and he pondered the matter as he hung upon the balcony.  If Chauvenet was on his way to America it was possible that he would carry with him the important paper whose loss had caused so much anxiety to the Austrian minister; if so, where was it during his stay in Geneva?

“The old man’s death is only the first step.  We require a succession of deaths.”

“We require three, to be explicit, not more or less.  We should be fortunate if the remaining two could be accomplished as easily as Stroebel’s.”

“He was a beast.  He is well dead.”

“That depends on the way you look at it.  They seem really to be mourning the old beggar at Vienna.  It is the way of a people.  They like to be ruled by a savage hand.  The people, as you have heard me say before, are fools.”

The last speaker was a young man whom Armitage had never seen before; he was a decided blond, with close-trimmed straw-colored beard and slightly-curling hair.  Opposite him, and facing the door, sat Chauvenet.  On the table between them were decanters and liqueur glasses.

“I am going to America at once,” said Chauvenet, holding his filled glass toward a brass lamp of an old type that hung from the ceiling.

“It is probably just as well,” said the other.  “There’s work to do there.  We must not forget our more legitimate business in the midst of these pleasant side issues.”