The Cercle Extranationale

The suite of rooms into which they were ushered appeared to be
furnished in irreproachable taste. Except for the salon at the
further end of the suite, where play was in progress, the charming
apartment might have been a private one; and the homelike simplicity
of the room, where books, flowers, and even a big, grey cat confirmed
the first agreeable impression, accented the lurking smile on
Sengoun's lips.

Doc Curfoot, in evening dress, came forward to receive them, in
company with another man, young, nice-looking, very straight, and with
the high, square shoulders of a Prussian.

"Bong soire, mussoors," said Curfoot genially. "J'ai l'honnoor de
vous faire connaitre mong ami, Mussoor Weishelm."

They exchanged very serious bows with "Mussoor" Weishelm, and Curfoot
retired.

In excellent French Weishelm inquired whether they desired supper; and
learning that they did not, bowed smilingly and bade them welcome:

"You are at home, gentlemen; the house is yours. If it pleases you to
sup, we offer you our hospitality; if you care to play, the salon is
at your disposal, or, if you prefer, a private room. Yonder is the
buffet; there are electric bells at your elbow. You are at home," he
repeated, clicked his heels together, bowed, and took his leave.

Sengoun dropped into a comfortable chair and sent a waiter for caviar,
toast, and German champagne.

Neeland lighted a cigarette, seated himself, and looked about him
curiously.