"Yes, _he_ must be crushed," returned Armitage absent-mindedly, in
English; then, remembering himself, he repeated the affirmation in
French, changing the pronoun.

Mrs. Sanderson was now free. She was a pretty, vivacious woman, much
younger than her stalwart husband,--a college graduate whom he had found
teaching school near one of his silver mines.

"Welcome once more, constituent! We're proud to see you, I can tell you.
Our host owns some marvelous tapestries and they're hung out to-night for
the world to see." She guided Armitage toward the Secretary's gallery on
an upper floor. Their host was almost as famous as a connoisseur as for
his achievements in diplomacy, and the gallery was a large apartment in
which every article of furniture, as well as the paintings, tapestries
and specimens of pottery, was the careful choice of a thoroughly
cultivated taste.

"It isn't merely an art gallery; it's the most beautiful room in
America," murmured Mrs. Sanderson.

"I can well believe it. There's my favorite Vibert,--I wondered what had
become of it."

"It isn't surprising that the Secretary is making a great reputation
by his dealings with foreign powers. It's a poor ambassador who could
not be persuaded after an hour in this splendid room. The ordinary
affairs of life should not be mentioned here. A king's coronation would
not be out of place,--in fact, there's a chair in the corner against that
Gobelin that would serve the situation. The old gentleman by that cabinet
is the Baron von Marhof, the Ambassador from Austria-Hungary. He's a
brother-in-law of Count von Stroebel, who was murdered so horribly in a
railway carriage a few weeks ago."

"Ah, to be sure! I haven't seen the Baron in years. He has changed
little."

"Then you knew him,--in the old country?"

"Yes; I used to see him--when I was a boy," remarked Armitage.

Mrs. Sanderson glanced at Armitage sharply. She had dined at his ranch
house in Montana and knew that he lived like a gentleman,--that his
house, its appointments and service were unusual for a western ranchman.
And she recalled, too, that she and her husband had often speculated as
to Armitage's antecedents and history, without arriving at any conclusion
in regard to him.

The room had slowly filled and they strolled about, dividing attention
between distinguished personages and the not less celebrated works of
art.

"Oh, by the way, Mr. Armitage, there's the girl I have chosen for you to