"A chap worth knowing; a reporter just a little out of the ordinary. I'm going to introduce him. You never can tell. We might need him some day. Ah, Norton, how are you?" "Good evening, Mr. Braine." The reporter, catching sight of a pair of dazzling eyes, hesitated. "The Countess Perigoff, Norton. You're in no hurry, are you?" [Illustration: THE PRINCESS PERIGOFF] "Not now," smiled the reporter. "Ah!" said the countess, interested. It was the old compliment, said in an unusual way. It pleased her. The reporter sank into a chair. When inactive he was rather a dreamy-eyed sort of chap. He possessed that rare accomplishment of talking upon one subject and thinking upon another at the same time. So while he talked gaily with the young woman on varied themes, his thoughts were busy speculating upon her companion. He was quite certain that the name Braine was assumed, but he was also equally certain that the man carried an extraordinary brain under his thatch of salt and pepper hair. The man had written three or four brilliant monographs on poisons and the uses of radium, and it was through and by these that the reporter had managed to pick up his acquaintance. He lived well, but inconspicuously. Suddenly the pupils of Braine's eyes narrowed; the eye became cold. Over the smoke of his cigarette he was looking into the wall mirror. A man had passed behind him and sat down at the next table. Still gazing into the mirror, Braine saw Norton wave his hand; saw also the open wonder on the reporter's pleasant face. "Who is your friend, Norton?" Braine asked indifferently, his head still unturned. "Stanley Hargreave. Met him in Hongkong when I was sent over to handle a part of the revolution. War correspondence stuff. First time I ever ran across him on Broadway at night. We've since had some powwows over some rare books. Queer old cock; brave as a lion, but as quiet as a mouse." "Bookish, eh? My kind. Bring him over." Underneath the table Braine maneuvered to touch the foot of the countess. "I don't know," said the reporter dubiously. "He might say no, and that would embarrass the whole lot of us. He's a bit of a hermit. I'm surprised to see him here." "Try," urged the countess. "I like to meet men who are hermits." "I haven't the least doubt about that," the reporter laughed. "I'll try; but don't blame me if I'm rebuffed." He left the table with evident reluctance and approached Hargreave. The two shook hands cordially, for the elder man was rather fond of this medley of information known as Jim Norton. "Sit down, boy; sit down. You're just the kind of a man I've been wanting to talk to to-night." "Wouldn't you rather talk to a pretty woman?" "I'm an old man." "Bah! That's a hypocritical bluff, and you know it. My friends at the next table have asked me to bring you over." "I do not usually care to meet strangers."