“Captain Morhange,” said my companion.

I stepped forward in my turn.

“Lieutenant de Saint-Avit.  It is a fact, sir, that I am very likely to confuse Arbois of Carthage with Procles de Jubainville.  Later, I shall have to see about filling up those gaps.  But just now, I should like to know where we are, if we are free, and if not, what occult power holds us.  You have the appearance, sir, of being sufficiently at home in this house to be able to enlighten us upon this point, which I must confess, I weakly consider of the first importance.”

M. Le Mesge looked at me.  A rather malevolent smile twitched the corners of his mouth.  He opened his lips....

A gong sounded impatiently.

“In good time, gentlemen, I will tell you.  I will explain everything....  But now you see that we must hurry.  It is time for lunch and our fellow diners will get tired of waiting.”

“Our fellow diners?”

“There are two of them,” M. Le Mesge explained.  “We three constitute the European personnel of the house, that is, the fixed personnel,” he seemed to feel obliged to add, with his disquieting smile.  “Two strange fellows, gentlemen, with whom, doubtless, you will care to have as little to do as possible.  One is a churchman, narrow-minded, though a Protestant.  The other is a man of the world gone astray, an old fool.”

“Pardon,” I said, “but it must have been he whom I heard last night.  He was gambling:  with you and the minister, doubtless?”

M. Le Mesge made a gesture of offended dignity.

“The idea!  With me, sir?  It is with the Tuareg that he plays.  He teaches them every game imaginable.  There, that is he who is striking the gong to hurry us up.  It is half past nine, and the Salle de Trente et Quarante opens at ten o’clock.  Let us hurry.  I suppose that anyway you will not be averse to a little refreshment.”

“Indeed we shall not refuse,” Morhange replied.

We followed M. Le Mesge along a long winding corridor with frequent steps.  The passage was dark.  But at intervals rose-colored night lights and incense burners were placed in niches cut into the solid rock.  The passionate Oriental scents perfumed the darkness and contrasted strangely with the cold air of the snowy peaks.

From time to time, a white Targa, mute and expressionless as a phantom, would pass us and we would hear the clatter of his slippers die away behind us.

M. Le Mesge stopped before a heavy door covered with the same pale metal which I had noticed on the walls of the library.  He opened it and stood aside to let us pass.

Although the dining room which we entered had little in common with European dining rooms, I have known many which might have envied its comfort.  Like the library, it was lighted by a great window.  But I noticed that it had an outside exposure, while that of the library overlooked the garden in the center of the crown of mountains.