"General," said I, "you are my senior, and I feel that your Illyrian, or your French, or your broken English or any other language in which you may be moved to indulge, will carry more weight than mine."
"Oh, do you! By the way; I have forgotten my name."
"General Drago."
"And yours?"
"Count Alexis Zbynska."
"Well, here goes."
The gallant warrior gave a mighty tug at the bell. This met with no attention; but at the second assault on the ambassadorial door-bell, the massive portal was swung back, slowly and solemnly, by a gorgeous menial. In the immediate background there were others.
"I am General Drago, and I wish to see the Ambassador." The Chief Constable's precision of phrase was really majestic.
The stalwart Illyrian, who seemed to be quite seven feet high from the crown of his wig to the soles of his silk stockings, bowed and led the way within.
When we had crossed his Excellency's threshold, and just as a gorgeous interior had unfolded itself to our respectful gaze, a very urbane-looking personage in evening clothes and a pair of white kid gloves took charge of us. He led us through a spacious hall containing pillars of white marble, whence we passed into a waiting-room, immediately to the right of a distinctly imposing alabaster staircase. In this apartment the light was dim and religious, and the atmosphere had a chill solemnity. Our friend of the white kid gloves presented us with a slip of paper apiece, and indicated an inkstand on the table.