r to the Jardin Russe, across
the Place de la Concorde, and into the Cafe des Bulgars in the rue
Vilna.

On the stairs Neeland heard Sengoun still muttering to himself:

"Certainly I am sick of cities and narrow strips of sky. What I need
is a thousand lances at a gallop, and a little Kirghiz horse between
my knees."

CHAPTER XXXII

THE CERCLE EXTRANATIONALE

The suite of rooms into which they were ushered appeared to be
furnished in irreproachable taste. Except for the _salon_ at the
further end of the suite, where play was in progress, the charming
apartment might have been a private one; and the homelike simplicity
of the room, where books, flowers, and even a big, grey cat confirmed
the first agreeable impression, accented the lurking smile on
Sengoun's lips.

Doc Curfoot, in evening dress, came forward to receive them, in
company with another man, young, nice-looking, very straight, and with
the high, square shoulders of a Prussian.

"_Bong soire, mussoors_," said Curfoot genially. "_J'ai l'honnoor de
vous faire connaitre mong ami, Mussoor Weishelm._"

They exchanged very serious bows with "Mussoor" Weishelm, and Curfoot
retired.

In excellent French Weishelm inquired whether they desired supper; and
learning that they did not, bowed smilingly and bade them welcome:

"You are at home, gentlemen; the house is yours. If it pleases you to
sup, we offer you our hospitality; if you care to play, the _salon_ is
at your disposal, or, if you prefer, a private room. Yonder is the
buffet; there are electric bells at your elbow. You are at home," he
repeated, clicked his heels together, bowed, and took his leave.

Sengoun dropped into a comfortable chair and sent a waiter for caviar,
toast, and German champagne.

Neeland lighted a cigarette, seated himself, and looked about him
curiously.

Over in a corner on a sofa a rather pretty woman, a cigarette between
her jewelled fingers, was reading an evening newspaper. Two others in
the adjoining room, young and attractive, their feet on the fireplace
fender, conversed together over a sandwich, a glass of the widely
advertised Dubonnet, and another of the equally advertised Bon Lait
Maggi--as serenely and as comfortably as though they were by their own
firesides.

"Perhaps they are," remarked Sengoun, plastering an oblong of hot
toast with caviar. "Birds of this kind nest easily anywhere."

Neeland continued to gaze toward the _salon_ where play was in