inexpressibly dear and terribly far away. I was very angry with Bullivant, till I remembered how fair he had been. My fate was my own choosing. 

 When I was hunting the Black Stone the interest of the problem had helped to keep me going. But now I could see no problem. My mind had nothing to work on but three words of gibberish on a sheet of paper and a mystery of which Sir Walter had been convinced, but to which he couldn’t give a name. It was like the story I had read of Saint Teresa setting off at the age of ten with her small brother to convert the Moors. I sat huddled in the taxi with my chin on my breast, wishing that I had lost a leg at Loos and been comfortably tucked away for the rest of the war. 

 Sure enough I found my man in the Grill Room. There he was, feeding solemnly, with a napkin tucked under his chin. He was a big fellow with a fat, sallow, clean-shaven face. I disregarded the hovering waiter and pulled up a chair beside the American at the little table. He turned on me a pair of full sleepy eyes, like a ruminating ox. 

 “Mr Blenkiron?” I asked. 

 “You have my name, Sir,” he said. “Mr John Scantlebury Blenkiron. I would wish you good morning if I saw anything good in this darned British weather.” 

 “I come from Sir Walter Bullivant,” I said, speaking low. 

 “So?” said he. “Sir Walter is a very good friend of mine. Pleased to meet you, Mr—or I guess it’s Colonel—” 

 “Hannay,” I said; “Major Hannay.” I was wondering what this sleepy Yankee could do to help me. 

 “Allow me to offer you luncheon, Major. Here, waiter, bring the carte. I regret that I cannot join you in sampling the efforts of the management of this hotel. I suffer, Sir, from dyspepsia—duodenal dyspepsia. It gets me two hours after a meal and gives me hell just below the breast-bone. So I am obliged to adopt a diet. My nourishment is fish, Sir, and boiled milk and a little dry toast. It’s a melancholy descent from the days when I could do justice to a lunch at Sherry’s and sup off oyster-crabs and devilled bones.” He sighed from the depths of his capacious frame. 

 I ordered an omelette and a chop, and took another look at him. The large eyes seemed to be gazing steadily at me without seeing me. They were as vacant as an abstracted child’s; but I had an uncomfortable feeling that they saw more than mine. 

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