“The last two years or so, did you say?” he asked, turning his piercing eyes full on Basil. “I think that is what I heard!” hesitated Basil, who was no longer quite sure of what he had heard, shifting his cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other. “I am not certain, of course.” “Because,” the other explained, “my notes record here a sojourn of some duration--wait--a sojourn in Petersburg--four years ago of--of two weeks. The young man had previously visited the Crimea--or at least he came straight here from there.” The General once more began to thumb his little book. “At that time,” he went on, speaking very slowly, “he had been only for a short while British Military Attaché in Paris. His name is Moray--Captain Neville Moray, of the Grenadier Guards. His arrival was brought instantly to my notice, owing to his connection with the diplomatic service. His passport had been obtained for him under the plea of traveling for pleasure. Moreover, he cannot be very rich, for he put up here at a decidedly second-rate hotel, made no calls on anybody, not even his Ambassador--which seemed rather queer--and did not once use his official position to obtain a presentation at Court or to any of the Grand Dukes or the military authorities. His acquaintance with the fair _Lesghise_ in question may have antedated his first trip here, because she had accompanied a mutual friend of ours--let his name remain unpronounced, for he is a great miscreant and a delightful man--to Paris a few months previously, and if our English Lovelace is at all _lancé_ in the smart world, he probably met her then. As a matter of fact, it was taken for granted in our Secret Service that he had come here on purpose to follow her. She is, as you know, a strikingly beautiful woman.” Basil had risen, and, standing with his face beyond the circle of light cast by the monumental lamp on the table, was studiously selecting yet another fresh cigarette. “I never set eyes on her, General,” he replied, “and I am deeply obliged to you far taking all this trouble.” He waved his hand slowly before his face, as though to dissipate the gauzy volutes floating between himself and his old friend. “I don’t know how to thank you,” he added, sincerely. “Don’t thank me, my boy. It has given me great pleasure to dip into my old trade again. One is like that. The very smell of the harness once worn is pleasing to the nostrils. How it all comes back to me! For instance, look at this: I had utterly forgotten the very existence of this Englishman, and now that a corner of the veil was lifted by you a while ago, I can see before me a great many incidents that lay dormant in an odd corner of my old brain, and, in particular, a little tableau that had its charms at the time.” “What was that?” asked Basil, with a quick turn of the head.