The stranger went into the cathedral, and took from the pocket of his mantle a small memorandum book.
"'Men babble away their secrets, and whisper away their lives,'" he murmured with a smile. "Never was my friend Baggin more apropos."
He set to work upon the cipher. It was very quiet in the cathedral.
* * * * * * *
That evening, at ten o'clock, the trim serving-maid tapped lightly at the sitting-room door of the two American gentlemen, and tendered Baggin, who answered it, a card.
"Tell him to come up," he said in a surly voice. He flipped the bit of pasteboard across to his friend. "Poltavo! What the devil is he doing in this part of the world? No good, I'll be bound."
A sudden idea shot across his mind and struck him pale. He stood in the middle of the room, his head down, his brows drawn blackly together. A red light flickered in his eyes.
Grayson, lounging easily in a deep leather chair, regarded him with something of the contempt the lazy man always entertains for the active one. The beginning of a secret dislike formed vaguely in his brain. His thoughts flew to Poltavo, a bright contrast. "I wish he would bring me news of Doris," he muttered. A wistful look crept into his face.
There was a discreet double knock at the door, it fell open, and Count Poltavo was revealed framed picturesquely in the archway.
He wore a black felt hat and a velvet-lined cappa which fell about him in long graceful folds. A small dark moustache adorned his upper lip. He removed it, and the hat, gravely, and stood bare-headed before them, a slender, distinguished figure.