“Ah, no, sir, not so far as that.  Only to—.  There I must leave you, and take the train for Windermere.  I live on the banks of your beautiful lake.  Permettez-moi, monsieur,” and with a movement that was a combination of a shrug, a grimace and a bow, the stranger drew a card-case from one of his pockets, and, extracting a card therefrom, handed it to Ducie.

The Captain took it with a bow, and, sticking his glass in his eye, read:—­

_____________________________________
|                                   |
|                                   |
|         M. PAUL PLATZOFF.         |
|                                   |
|                                   |
|_Bon Repos,                        |
|    Windermere._                   |
|___________________________________|

The Captain in return handed over his pasteboard credential, and, this solemn rite being accomplished, conversation was resumed on more easy and agreeable terms.

“I daresay you are puzzling your brains as to my nationality,” said Platzoff, with a smile.  “I am not an Englishman; that you can tell from my accent.  I am not a Frenchman, although I write ‘monsieur’ before my name.  Still less am I either a German or an Italian.  Neither am I a genuine Russian, although I look to Russia as my native country.  In brief, my father was a Russian, my mother was a Frenchwoman, and I was born on board a merchantman during a gale of wind in the Baltic.”

“Then I should call you a true cosmopolitan—­a genuine citizen of the world,” remarked Ducie, who was amused with his new friend’s frankness.

“In ideas I strive to be such, but it is difficult at all times to overcome the prejudices of education and early training,” answered Platzoff.  “You, sir, are, I presume, in the army?”

“Formerly I was in the army, but I sold out nearly a dozen years ago,” answered Ducie, drily.  “Does this fellow expect me to imitate his candour?” thought the Captain.  “Would he like to know all about my grandfather and grandmother, and that I have a cousin who is an earl?  If so, I am afraid he will be disappointed.”

“Did you see much service while you were in the army?” asked Platzoff.

“I saw a good deal of hard fighting in the East, although not on any large scale.”  Ducie was beginning to get restive.  He was not the sort of man to quietly allow himself to be catechised by a stranger.

“I, too, know something of the East,” said Platzoff.  “Three of the happiest years of my life were spent in India.  While out there I became acquainted with several gentlemen of your profession.  With Colonel Leslie I was particularly intimate.  I had been stopping with the poor fellow only a few days before that gallant affair at Ruckapore, in which he came by his death.”

“I remember the affair you speak of,” said Ducie.  “I was in one of the other Presidencies at the time it happened.”

“There was another officer in poor Leslie’s regiment with whom I was also on very intimate terms.  He died of cholera a little later on, and I attended him in his last moments.  I allude to a Captain Charles Chillington.  Did you ever meet with him in your travels?”