He crossed the room, fitted the key in the lock and turned it.
“We do not make war as those others,” he remarked, smiling.
Bernadine drew himself up.
“I will not drink with you,” he said, “I will not smoke with you. But some day this reckoning shall come.”
He turned to the door. De Grost laid his finger upon the bell.
“Show Count von Hern out,” he directed the astonished servant who appeared a moment or two later.
CHAPTER VI. THE SEVEN SUPPERS OF ANDREA KORUST
Peter, Baron de Grost, was enjoying what he had confidently looked forward to as an evening’s relaxation, pure and simple. He sat in one of the front rows of the stalls of the Alhambra, his wife by his side and an excellent cigar in his mouth. An hour or so ago he had been in telephonic communication with Paris, had spoken with Sogrange himself, and received his assurance of a calm in political and criminal affairs amounting almost to stagnation. It was out of season, and, though his popularity was as great as ever, neither he nor his wife had any social engagements; hence this evening at a music hall, which Peter, for his part, was finding thoroughly amusing.
The place was packed—some said owing to the engagement of Andrea Korust and his brother, others to the presence of Mademoiselle Sophie Celaire in her wonderful danse des apaches. The violinist that night had a great reception. Three times he was called before the curtain; three times he was obliged to reiterate his grateful but immutable resolve never to yield to the nightly storm which demanded more from a man who has given of his best. Slim, with the worn face and hollow eyes of a genius, he stood and bowed his thanks, but when he thought the time had arrived, he disappeared, and though the house shook for minutes afterwards, nothing could persuade him to reappear.