But Markrute!--such a name might have come from anywhere.

No one knew anything about him, except that he was fabulously rich and had descended upon London some ten years previously from Paris, or Berlin, or Vienna, and had immediately become a power in the city, and within a year or so, had grown to be omnipotent in certain circles.
He had a wonderfully appointed house in Park Lane, one of those smaller ones just at the turn out of Grosvenor Street, and there he entertained in a reserved fashion.
It had been remarked by people who had time to think--rare cases in these days--that he had never made a disadvantageous friend, from his very first arrival.

If he had to use undesirables for business purposes he used them only for that, in a crisp, hard way, and never went to their houses.

Every acquaintance even was selected with care for a definite end.

One of his favorite phrases was that "it is only the fool who coins for himself limitations." At this time, as he sat smoking a fine cigar in his library which looked out on the park, he was perhaps forty-six years old or thereabouts, and but for his eyes--wise as serpents'-- he might have been ten years younger.
Opposite to him facing the light a young man lounged in a great leather chair.