“With pleasure,” responded the Italian. Menko’s house was some distance from the station, at the very end of the little city. The bell at the gate opening into the garden, had been removed, as if to show that the master of the house did not wish to be disturbed. Varhely was obliged to pound heavily upon the wooden barrier. The servant who appeared in answer to his summons, was an Hungarian, and he wore the national cap, edged with fur. “My master does not receive visitors,” he answered when Yanski asked him, in Italian, if Count Menko were at home. “Go and say to Menko Mihaly,” said Varhely, this time in Hungarian, “that Count Varhely is here as the representative of Prince Zilah!” The domestic disappeared, but returned almost immediately and opened the gate. Varhely and Valla crossed the garden, entered the house, and found themselves face to face with Menko. Varhely would scarcely have recognized him. The former graceful, elegant young man had suddenly aged: his hair was thin and gray upon the temples, and, instead of the carefully trained moustache of the embassy attache, a full beard now covered his emaciated cheeks. Michel regarded the entrance of Varhely into the little salon where he awaited him, as if he were some spectre, some vengeance which he had expected, and which did not astonish him. He stood erect, cold and still, as Yanski advanced toward him; while Angelo Valla remained in the doorway, mechanically stroking his smoothly shaven chin. “Monsieur,” said Varhely, “for months I have looked forward impatiently to this moment. Do not doubt that I have sought you.” “I did not hide myself,” responded Menko. “Indeed? Then may I ask what was your object in going to Warsaw?” “To seek-forgetfulness,” said the young man, slowly and sadly. This simple word--so often spoken by Zilah--which had no more effect upon the stern old Hungarian than a tear upon a coat of mail, produced a singular impression upon Valla. It seemed to him to express unconquerable remorse. “What you have done can not be forgotten,” said Varhely. “No more than what I have suffered.” “You made me the accomplice of the most cowardly and infamous act a man could commit. I have come to you to demand an explanation.” Michel lowered his eyes at these cutting words, his thin face paling, and his lower lip trembling; but he said nothing. At last, after a pause, he raised his eyes again to the face of the old Hungarian, and, letting the words fall one by one, he replied: “I am at your disposal for whatever you choose to demand, to exact. I only desire to assure you that I had no intention of involving you in an act which I regarded as a cruel necessity. I wished to avenge myself. But I did not wish my vengeance to arrive too late, when what I had assumed the right to prevent had become irreparable.” “I do not understand exactly,” said Varhely. Menko glanced at Valla as if to ask whether he could speak openly before the Italian.