“If your papers are in order, as they appear to be,” said the youthful sous-officier, “you are expected in Delle.  And if it is you indeed whom we expect, then you will know how to answer properly the questions of a gentleman in the adjoining room who is perhaps expecting you.”  And the young sous-officier opened a door, bowed them into the room beyond, and closed the door behind them.  As they entered this room a civilian of fifty, ruddy, powerfully but trimly built, and wearing his white hair clipped close, rose from a swivel chair behind a desk littered with maps and papers.

“Good-afternoon,” he said in English.  “Be seated if you please.  And if you will kindly let me have your papers—­thank you.”

When the young man and the girl were seated, their suave and ruddy host dropped back onto his swivel chair.  For a long while he sat there absently caressing his trim, white moustache, studying their papers with unhurried and minute thoroughness.

Presently he lifted his cold, greyish eyes but not his head, like a man looking up over eyeglasses: 

“You are this Kay McKay described here?” he inquired pleasantly.  But in his very clear, very cold greyish eyes there was something suggesting the terrifying fixity of a tiger’s.

“I am the person described,” said the young man quietly.

“And you,” turning only his eyes on the young girl, “are Miss Evelyn Erith?”

“I am.”

“These, obviously, are your photographs?”

McKay smiled:  “Obviously.”

“Certainly.  And all these other documents appear to be in order”—­he laid them carelessly on his desk—­“If,” he added, “Delle is your ultimate destination and terminal.”

“We go farther,” said McKay in a low voice.

“Not unless you have something further to offer me in the way of credentials,” said the ruddy, white-haired Mr. Recklow, smiling his terrifying smile.

“I might mention a number,” began McKay in a voice still lower, “if you are interested in the science of numbers!”

“Really.  And what number do you think might interest me?”

“Seventy-six—­for example.”

“Oh,” said the other; “in that case I shall mention the very interesting number, Seventy.  And you, Miss Erith?” turning to the yellow-haired girl.  “Have you any number to suggest that might interest me?”

“Seventy-seven,” she said composedly.  Recklow nodded: 

“Do you happen to believe, either of you, that, at birth, the hours of our lives are already irrevocably numbered?”

Miss Erith said:  “So teach us to number our days that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.”

Recklow got up, made them a bow, and reseated himself.  He touched a handbell; the blond sous-officier entered.

“Everything is in order; take care of the car; carry the luggage to the two rooms above,” said Recklow.

To McKay and Miss Erith he added:  “My name is John Recklow.  If you want to rest before you wash up, your rooms are ready.  You’ll find me here or in the garden behind the house.”