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He paused and regarded his companion with a level, steady gaze. A faint, ironical smile played about the corners of his mouth.

"Is it not so, my friend?" he asked softly. "I am—how you say—left out in the cold?"

His countenance was serene and unruffled, and it was only by his slightly quickened breathing that an acute observer might have said that the conversation held any unusual significance.

The American stirred uneasily in his chair. A dull flush mounted to his temples.

"There are some financial matters——" he muttered sullenly.

"You admit it, then—this high scheme has to do with finance, with the finance of nations—the finance of the world!"

"Hush!" whispered Baggin hoarsely. He glanced about, half-fearfully.

The younger man ignored the outburst. He laid a persuasive hand upon his companion's arm.

"My friend," he said gravely, "let me give you a bit of good advice. Believe me, I speak disinterestedly. Take me into your counsels. As a Russian nobleman and distant kinsman of his Imperial Majesty the Tsar, I have the entrée to the most exclusive houses of London. Politics I know a little, and the politicians extremely well. Twice I have been a guest at Sandringham. I am a person of diplomacy, resolution, power. In brief, Mr. Baggin, I am intelligent, and I know too little or too much for you. Too much for an outsider, too little for a friend and—ah—conspirator. With half my knowledge, I could make you, or break you like glass. Candidly, I have not the heart for the latter. I would be rather a—a friendly power." He leaned forward suddenly. "Make me," he said softly, "a member of your Committee of Nine."