"This," he said, "is the young man with whom you desired to speak. We will sit down if we may. Sigismund, this is the great Herr Selingman, philanthropist and millionaire, with his secretary, Mr. Norgate. We take dinner with him to-night." The youth shook hands without enthusiasm. His manner towards Selingman was cold. At Norgate he glanced once or twice with something approaching curiosity. Stralhaus proceeded to make conversation. "Our young friend," he explained, addressing Norgate, "is an exile in London. He belongs to an unfortunate country. He is a native of Bosnia." The boy's lip curled. "It is possible," he remarked, "that Mr. Norgate has never even heard of my country. He is very little likely to know its history." "On the contrary," Norgate replied, "I know it very well. You have had the misfortune, during the last few years, to come under Austrian rule." "Since you put it like that," the boy declared, "we are friends. I am one of those who cry out to Heaven in horror at the injustice which has been done. We love liberty, we Bosnians. We love our own people and our own institutions, and we hate Austria. May you never know, sir, what it is to be ruled by an alien race!" "You have at least the sympathy of many nations who are powerless to interfere," Selingman said quietly. "I read your pamphlet, Mr. Henriote, with very great interest. Before we leave to-night, I shall make a proposal to you." The boy seemed puzzled for a moment, but Stralhaus intervened with some commonplace remark. "After dinner," he suggested, "we will talk." Certainly during the progress of the meal Henriote said little. He ate, although obviously half famished, with restraint, but although Norgate did his best to engage him in conversation, he seemed taciturn, almost sullen. Towards the end of dinner, when every one was smoking and coffee had been served, Selingman glanced at his watch. "Now," he said, "I will tell you, my young Bosnian patriot, why I sent for you. Would you like to go back to your country, in the first place?" "It is impossible!" Henriote declared bitterly, "I am exile. I am forbidden to return under pain of death." Selingman opened his pocket-book, and, searching among his papers, produced a thin blue one which he opened and passed across the table. "Read that," he ordered shortly. The young man obeyed. A sudden exclamation broke from his lips. A pink flush, which neither the wine nor the food had produced, burned in his cheeks. He sat hunched up, leaning forward, his eyes devouring the paper. When he had finished, he still gripped it. "It is my pardon!" he cried. "I may go back home--back to Bosnia!" "It is your free pardon," Selingman replied, "but it is granted to you upon conditions. Those conditions, I may say, are entirely for your country's sake and are framed by those who feel exactly as you feel--that Austrian rule for Bosnia is an injustice." "Go on," the young man muttered. "What am I to do?"