The Russian, Bitzenko by name, a solemnly excitable bourgeois of Petrograd, recognized a situation after his own heart. Excitement was a food he seldom got in such quantities, and pretending to listen to Kreisler a little abstractedly and uncertainly to start with, he was really from the first very much his man. So Kreisler and his newly found henchman, silently and intently engaged on their evening’s business, have been accounted for. Soltyk had been discovered some quarter of an hour before Tarr’s appearance, and stared out of countenance for the whole of the time by Kreisler. CHAPTER III The indignation and flurry subsided; but the child of this eruption remained. The Polish party found the legacy of the uproar as cold as its cause had been hot. Bitzenko inspired respect as he scratched his beard, which smelt of Turkish tobacco, and wrinkled up imperturbably small grey eyes. Then, the excitement over, the red mark on Soltyk’s cheek became merely a fact. One or two of his friends found themselves examining it obliquely, as a relic, with curiosity. He had had his face smacked earlier in the day, as well. How much longer was his face going to go on being smacked? Here was this Russian still there. There _was_ the chance of an affair. A duel—a duel, for a change, in our civilized life; _c’était une idée_. Who was the girl the Russian kept mentioning? Was she that girl he had been telling them about who had a man-servant? Kreisler was a Frei-Herr? The Russian had referred to him as “my friend the Frei-Herr.” “Herr Kreisler does not wish to take further measures to ensure himself some form of satisfaction,” the Russian said monotonously. “There is always the police for drunken blackguards,” Soltyk answered. “If you please! That is not the way! It is not usually so difficult to obtain satisfaction from a gentleman.” “But then I am not a gentleman in the sense that your friend Kreisler is.” “Perhaps not, but a blow on the face⸺” The little Russian said “blow on the face” in a soft inviting way, as though it were a titbit with powers of fascination of its own. “But it is most improper to ask me to stand here wrangling with you,” he next said. “You please yourself.” “I am merely serving my friend Herr Kreisler. Will you oblige me by indicating a friend of yours with whom I can discuss this matter?” The waiter who had brought in the card again approached their table. This time he presented Soltyk with a note, written on the café paper and folded in four.