Dan Derrington's Story

I had known Alexis Saberevski in St. Petersburg; I had known him again
in Paris. I had, in fact, encountered him at one time or another in
almost every capital of Europe, and I was therefore not greatly
surprised when, having just left the dining table at my club in my own
native city, New York, his card was given to me with the information
that the gentleman was waiting in the reception room.

I had him up at once, with the courtesies of the club extended to him,
and finding that he had dined, we ensconced ourselves in the depths of
a pair of huge chairs which occupied one of the secluded corners of the
library, each equally delighted to be again in the company of the
other. We had never known each other intimately, and yet we were
friends; friends after that fashion which sometimes comes between men
of pronounced characteristics, and which finds its expression in the
form of a silent confidence, and an undoubted pleasure in each other's
company.

I knew Saberevski to be a particularly strong man. Strong in the
highest and best acceptation and meaning of that word, for he was a
giant in intellect and in character.

He was also a mystery, and this fact possibly rendered him all the more
interesting to one whose business it had always been to solve
mysteries. I do not mean by that that I had ever made any effort to
delve into the secrets of Saberevski's past, or to read without his
knowledge and consent, any portion of that history which he kept so
carefully veiled; but the mere fact that an air of mystery did pervade
his presence, imparted to him a certain fascinating quality which might
not otherwise have been apparent.