Peter did not at once reply. He was standing in one of his characteristic attitudes, his hands clasped behind him, his head a little thrust forward, watching with every appearance of courteous interest the roomful of guests, stationary just now, listening to the performance of a famous violinist. It was, perhaps, by accident that his eyes met those of Madame de Lamborne, but she smiled at him subtly--more, perhaps, with her wonderful eyes than with her lips themselves. She was the centre of a very brilliant group, a most beautiful woman holding court, as was only right and proper, amongst her admirers. Peter sighed. "No," he said, "I shall not return with you, de Lamborne. I want you to follow my suggestions, if you will." "But, assuredly----" "Leave here early and go to your club. Remain there until one, then come to the Embassy. I shall be there awaiting your arrival." "You mean that you will go there alone? I do not understand," the ambassador protested. "Why should I go to my club? I do not at all understand!" "Nevertheless, do as I say," Peter insisted. "For the present, excuse me. I must look after my guests." The music had ceased, there was a movement towards the supper room. Peter offered his arm to Madame de Lamborne, who welcomed him with a brilliant smile. Her husband, although, for a Frenchman, he was by no means of a jealous disposition, was conscious of a vague feeling of uneasiness as he watched them pass out of the room together. A few minutes later he made his excuses to his wife, and, with a reluctance for which he could scarcely account, left the house. There was something in the air, he felt, which he did not understand. He would not have admitted it to himself, but he more than half divined the truth. The vacant seat in his wife's carriage was filled that night by the Baron de Grost. * * * * * At one o'clock precisely Monsieur de Lamborne returned to his house, and found de Grost gazing with obvious respect at the ponderous safe let into the wall. "A very fine affair--this," he remarked, motioning with his head towards it. "The best of its kind," Monsieur de Lamborne admitted. "No burglar yet has ever succeeded in opening one of its type. Here is the packet," he added, drawing the document from his pocket. "You shall see me place it in safety." Peter stretched out his hand and examined the sealed envelope for a moment closely. Then he moved to the writing-table, and, placing it upon the letter scales, made a note of its exact weight. Finally he watched it deposited in the ponderous safe, suggested the word to which the lock was set, and closed the door. Monsieur de Lamborne heaved a sigh of relief. "I fancy this time," he said, "that our friends at Berlin will be disappointed. Couch or easy-chair, Baron?" "The couch, if you please," Peter replied, "a strong cigar, and a long whisky and soda. So! Now for our vigil." The hours crawled away. Once Peter sat up and listened.