Blake laughed. "'Twas the eye-glass did it, Mac! A man shouldn't be
allowed to play poker with an eye-glass; it's taking an undue
advantage."

McCutcheon smiled his dry smile and shot a quizzical glance at the neat
young Englishman, who had become absorbed in one of his papers.

"Solid face, Blake!" he agreed. "Nothing so fine as an eye-glass for
sheer bluff. What would Billy be without one? Well, perhaps we won't
say. But with it you have no use for doubt—he's a diplomat all the
time."

The young man named Billy showed no irritation. With the composure which
he wore as a garment, he went on with his occupation.

For a time McCutcheon bore this aloofness, then he opened a new attack.

"What are you reading, my son? Makes a man sort of want his breakfast to
see that hungry look in your eyes. Share the provender, won't you?"

Billy looked up sedately.

"You fellows think my life's a game," he said. "But I tell you it takes
some doing to keep in touch with things."

Blake laughed chaffingly. "And the illustrated weekly papers are an
excellent substitute for Blue-books?"Billy remained undisturbed. 
"It's all very well to scoff, but one may get a side-light anywhere. In diplomacy nothing's too insignificant to notice."
Again Blake laughed. 
"The principle on which it offers you a living?"
"Oh, come," said Billy, "that's rather rough! You know very well what I mean. 'Tisn't always in the serious reports you get the color of a fact, just as the gossip of a dinner-table is often more enlightening than a cabinet council."
"Apropos?"
"I was thinking of this Petersburg affair."
"What? The everlasting Duma business?" McCutcheon drew in a long breath of smoke.
Billy looked superior, as befitted a man who dealt in subtler matters than mere politics. 
"Not at all," he said. "The disappearance of the Princess Davorska."
Here Blake made a murmur of impatience. 
"Oh, Billy, don't!" he said. "It's so frightfully banal."
McCutcheon took his 

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