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I made no response to this approach; but it made no difference to him; no inroad upon the stockade of his self-complacency. He babbled on with remarks of the kind, and then let fall a question which seemed to have something behind it.

“I suppose you have lived much in America?” and his beady black eyes shot a swift sly glance at me.

“Even Americans are at home sometimes,” I replied.

“Good again, good again,” he laughed. “You are great travellers, globe-trotters, eh? And you yourself speak French so well; quite as well as most Russians indeed; and you understand Russian too, Helga tells me. Do many of your countrymen understand Russian?” and again the little sharp eyes came at me.

“My father was in the diplomatic service, M. Drexel, and as a child I was educated in Russia, Germany and France, and thus learnt all three languages.”

Helga gave me a look of thanks which the man intercepted; and he stared at her, a cunning smile on his flabby face.

“Quite a linguist, you see, Helga,” he said, and then assuming a casual tone—“By the way, the friend you were expecting did not come after all?” The tone did not deceive me. I saw that he knew who I was supposed to be, and that all this had merely been intentional monkeying.