“I’ve been asked to a sort of party at Stewart’s rooms this week,” Ste. Marie said.  “I don’t know whether I shall go or not.  Probably not.  I suppose I shouldn’t find Olga Nilssen there?”

“Well, no,” said the Belgian, laughing.  “No, I hardly think so.  Good-bye!  Think over what I’ve told you.  Good-bye!”

He went away down the stair, and Ste. Marie returned to his unpacking.

Nothing more of consequence occurred in the next few days.  Hartley had unearthed a somewhat shabby adventurer who swore to having seen the Irishman O’Hara in Paris within a month, but it was by no means certain that this being did not merely affirm what he believed to be desired of him, and in any case the information was of no especial value, since it was O’Hara’s present whereabouts that was the point at issue.  So it came to Thursday evening.  Ste. Marie received a note from Captain Stewart during the day, reminding him that he was to come to the rue du Faubourg St. Honore that evening, and asking him to come early, at ten or thereabouts, so that the two could have a comfortable chat before any one else turned up.  Ste. Marie had about decided not to go at all, but the courtesy of this special invitation from Miss Benham’s uncle made it rather impossible for him to stay away.  He tried to persuade Hartley to follow him on later in the evening, but that gentleman flatly refused and went away to dine with some English friends at Armenonville.

So Ste. Marie, in a vile temper, dined quite alone at Lavenue’s, beside the Gare Montparnasse, and toward ten o’clock drove across the river to the rue du Faubourg.  Captain Stewart’s flat was up five stories, at the top of the building in which it was located, and so, well above the noises of the street.  Ste. Marie went up in the automatic lift, and at the door above his host met him in person, saying that the one servant he kept was busy making preparations in the kitchen beyond.  They entered a large room, long but comparatively shallow, in shape not unlike the sitting-room in the rue d’Assas, but very much bigger, and Ste. Marie uttered an exclamation of surprise and pleasure, for he had never before seen an interior anything like this.  The room was decorated and furnished entirely in Chinese and Japanese articles of great age and remarkable beauty.  Ste. Marie knew little of the hieratic art of these two countries, but he fancied that the place must be an endless delight to the expert.

The general tone of the room was gold, dulled and softened by great age until it had ceased to glitter, and relieved by the dusty Chinese blue and by old red faded to rose and by warm ivory tints.  The great expanse of the walls was covered by a brownish-yellow cloth, coarse like burlap, and against it, round the room, hung sixteen large panels representing the sixteen Rakan.  They were early copies—­fifteenth century, Captain Stewart said—­of those famous originals by the Chinese Sung master Ririomin, which have been for six hundred years or more the treasures of Japan.  They were mounted upon Japanese brocade of blue and dull gold, framed in keyaki wood, and out of their brown, time-stained shadows the great Rakan scowled or grinned or placidly gazed, grotesquely graceful masterpieces of a perished art.