But a second glance would have shown you his embroidered linen and the flashing gems on his fingers; and you could not be long with him without being made aware that you were in the company of a thorough man of the world—­of one who had travelled much and observed much; of one whose correspondents kept him au courant with all the chief topics of the day.  He knew, and could tell you, the secret history of the last new opera; how much had been paid for it, what it had cost to produce, and all about the great green-room cabal against the new prima donna.  He knew what amount of originality could be safely claimed for the last new drama that was taking the town by storm, and how many times the same story had been hashed up before.  He had read the last French novel of any note, and could favour you with a few personal reminiscences of its author not generally known.  As regarded political knowledge—­if all his statements were to be trusted—­he was informed as to much that was going on behind the great drop-scene.  He knew how the wires were pulled that moved the puppets who danced in public, especially those wires which were pulled in Paris, Vienna and St. Petersburg.  Before Ducie had been six hours at Bon Repos he knew more about political intrigues at home and abroad than he had ever dreamt of in the whole course of his previous life.

The dining-room at Bon Repos was a long low-ceilinged apartment, panelled with black oak, and fitted up in a rich and sombre style that was yet very different from the dull, heavy formality that obtains among three-fourths of the dining-rooms in English country houses.  Indeed, throughout the appointments and fittings of Bon Repos there was a touch of something Oriental grafted on to French taste, combined with a thorough knowledge and appreciation of insular comfort.  From the dining-room windows a lovely stretch of the lake could be seen glimmering in the starlight, and our two friends sat this evening over their wine by the wide open sash, gazing out into the delicious night.  Behind them, in the room, two or three candles were burning in silver sconces; but at the window they were sitting in that sort of half light which seems exactly suited for confidential talk.  Captain Ducie took advantage of it after a time to ask his host a question which he would perhaps have scarcely cared to put by broad daylight.

“Have you heard any news of your lost manuscript?”

“None whatever,” answered Platzoff.  “Neither do I expect, after this lapse of time, to hear anything further concerning it.  It has probably never been found, or if found, has (as you suggested at ’The Golden Griffin’) fallen into the hands of someone too ignorant, or too incurious, to master the secret of the cipher.”

“It has been much in my thoughts since I saw you last,” said Ducie.  “Was the MS. in your own writing, may I ask?”