d for a moment.

"Dick," he said earnestly, "if only you'd believe it, the adventures in
the Arabian Nights were as nothing compared with the present-day
drama of foreign politics. You see, we've learned to conceal things
nowadays--to smooth them over, to play the part of ordinary citizens to
the world while we tug at the underhand levers in our secret moments.
Good night! Good luck!"

CHAPTER VIII

Richard Hamel, although he certainly had not the appearance of a person
afflicted with nerves, gave a slight start. For the last half-hour,
during which time the train had made no stop, he had been alone in his
compartment. Yet, to his surprise, he was suddenly aware that the seat
opposite to him had been noiselessly taken by a girl whose eyes, also,
were fixed with curious intentness upon the broad expanse of marshland
and sands across which the train was slowly making its way. Hamel had
spent a great many years abroad, and his first impulse was to speak with
the unexpected stranger. He forgot for a moment that he was in England,
travelling in a first-class carriage, and pointed with his left hand
towards the sea.

"Queer country this, isn't it?" he remarked pleasantly. "Do you know,
I never heard you come in. It gave me quite a start when I found that I
had a fellow-passenger."

She looked at him with a certain amount of still surprise, a look which
he returned just as steadfastly, because even in those few seconds he
was conscious of that strange selective interest, certainly unaccounted
for by his own impressions of her appearance. She seemed to him, at that
first glance, very far indeed from being good-looking, according to any
of the standards by which he had measured good looks. She was thin, too
thin for his taste, and she carried herself with an aloofness to which
he was unaccustomed. Her cheeks were quite pale, her hair of a soft
shade of brown, her eyes grey and sad. She gave him altogether an
impression of colourlessness, and he had been living in a land where
colour and vitality meant much. Her speech, too, in its very restraint,
fell strangely upon his ears.

"I have been travelling in an uncomfortable compartment," she observed.
"I happened to notice, when passing along the corridor, that yours was
empty. In any case, I am getting out at the next station."

"So am I," he replied, still cheerfully. "I suppose the next station is
St. David's?"

She made no answer, but so far as her expression cou