sodes of a dream. Taking off his hat, he raised his
hand to his forehead, and discovered it to be slightly damp.

"No wonder," he muttered.

Drawing out a silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of his dinner
jacket, he wiped his face and forehead deliberately. Then, selecting a
long black cigar from a case which bore the monogram of the late Czar of
Russia, he lighted it, dropped the match in the tray, and lolling back
in a corner, closed his eyes wearily.

Thus, almost unmoving, he remained throughout the drive. His only
actions were, first, to assure himself that both doors were locked
again, and then at intervals tidily to place a little cone of ash in the
tray provided for the purpose. Finally, the car drew up and a door was
unlocked by the chauffeur.

Nicol Brinn, placing his hat upon his head, stepped out before the porch
of the Cavalry Club.

The chauffeur closed the door, and returned again to the wheel.
Immediately the car moved away. At the illuminated number Nicol Brinn
scarcely troubled to glance. Common sense told him that it was not that
under which the car was registered. His interest, on the contrary, was
entirely focussed upon a beautiful Rolls Royce, which was evidently
awaiting some visitor or member of the club. Glancing shrewdly at the
chauffeur, a smart, military-looking fellow, Nicol Brinn drew a card
from his waistcoat pocket, and resting it upon a wing in the light of
one of the lamps, wrote something rapidly upon it in pencil.

Returning the pencil to his pocket:

"Whose car, my man?" he inquired of the chauffeur.

"Colonel Lord Wolverham's, sir."

"Good," said Nicol Brinn, and put the card and a ten-shilling note into
the man's hand. "Go right into the club and personally give Colonel Lord
Wolverham this card. Do you understand?"

The man understood. Used to discipline, he recognized the note of
command in the speaker's voice.

"Certainly, sir," he returned, without hesitation; and stepping down
upon the pavement he walked into the club.

Less than two minutes afterward a highly infuriated military
gentleman--who, as it chanced, had never even heard of the distinguished
American traveller--came running out hatless into Piccadilly, holding
a crumpled visiting card in his hand. The card, which his chauffeur had
given him in the midst of a thrilling game, read as follows:

MR. NICOL BRINN RALEIGH HOUSE, PICCADILLY, W. I.

And written in pencil beneath the name appeared the foll