Lady Maxwell's interest was purely feminine, and was riveted now upon the jewellery worn by the woman. Bernadine, under the mask of his habitual indifference, which he had easily reassumed, seemed to be looking away out of the restaurant into the great square of a half-savage city, looking at that marvellous crowd, numbered by their thousands, even by their hundreds of thousands, of men and women whose arms flashed out toward the snow-hung heavens, whose lips were parted in one chorus of rapturous acclamation; looking beyond them to the tall, emaciated form of the bare-headed priest in his long robes, his wind-tossed hair and wild eyes, standing alone before that multitude in danger of death, or worse, at any moment--their idol, their hero. And again, as the memories came flooding into his brain, the scene passed away, and he saw the bare room, with its whitewashed walls and blocked-up windows; he felt the darkness, lit only by those flickering candles. He saw the white, passion-wrung faces of the men who clustered together around the rude table, waiting; he heard their murmurs; he saw the fear born in their eyes. It was the night when their leader did not come! Bernadine poured out another glass of wine and drank it slowly. The mists were clearing away now. He was in London, at the Savoy Restaurant, and within a few yards of him sat the man with whose name all Europe once had rung--the man hailed by some as martyr, and loathed by others as the most fiendish Judas who ever drew breath. Bernadine was not concerned with the moral side of this strange encounter. How best to use his knowledge of this man's identity was the question which beat upon his brain. What use could be made of him, what profit for his country and himself? And then a fear--a sudden, startling fear. Little profit, perhaps, to be made, but the danger--the danger of this man alive with such secrets locked in his bosom! The thought itself was terrifying, and even as he realised it a significant thing happened--he caught the eye of the Baron de Grost, lunching alone at a small table just inside the restaurant. "You are not at all amusing," his guest declared. "It is nearly five minutes since you have spoken." "You, too, have been absorbed," he reminded her. "It is that woman's jewels," she admitted. "I never saw anything more wonderful. The people are not English, of course. I wonder where they come from." "One of the Eastern countries, without a doubt," he replied carelessly. Lady Maxwell sighed. "He is a peculiar-looking man," she said, "but one could put up with a good deal for jewels like that. What are you doing this afternoon--picture galleries or your club?" "Neither, unfortunately," Bernadine answered. "I have promised to go with a friend to look at some polo ponies." "Do you know," she remarked, "that we have never been to see those Japanese prints yet?"