r I foresaw a journey
of infinite ease and comfort. It would be a royal progress. His
ever-present, but invisible, staff of secret agents would protect me.
I would share his special trains, his suites of deck cabins. But it
was not like that. My King's messenger was not that kind of a King's
messenger. Indeed, when he left the Levant, had it not been for the man
from Cook's, he would never have found his way from the hotel to the
right railroad-station. And that he now is safely in London is because
at Patras we rescued him from a boatman who had placed him unresisting
on a steamer for Australia.

[Illustration: "Very interestin'. You ought to frame it."]

I pointed him out to the detective. He recalled him as the gentleman who
had blocked the exit gate at the railroad-station. I suggested that that
was probably because he had lost his ticket.

"Lost his ticket! A King's messenger!" The detective was indignant with
me. "Impossible, sir!"

I told him the story of the drunken bandsman returning from the picnic.
"You can't have lost your ticket," said the guard.

"Can't I?" exclaimed the bandsman triumphantly. "I've lost the
bass-drum!"

Scotland Yard reproved the K. M. with deference, but severely.

"You should have told us at once, sir," he said, "that you were carrying
despatches. If you'd only shown your credentials, we'd had you safe on
board two hours ago."

The King's messenger blushed guiltily. He looked as though he wanted to
run.

"Don't tell me," I cried, "you've lost your credentials, too!"

"Don't be an ass!" cried the K. M. "I've mislaid them, that's all."

The detective glared at him as though he would enjoy leading him to the
moat in the tower.

"You've been robbed!" he gasped.

"Have you looked," I asked, "in the unlikely places?"

"I always look there first," explained the K. M.

"Look again," commanded the detective.

Unhappily, the K. M. put his hand in his inside coat pocket and, with
intense surprise, as though he had performed a conjuring trick, produced
a paper that creaked and crinkled.

"That's it!" he cried.

"You come with me," commanded Scotland Yard, "before you lose it again."

Two nights later, between the acts at a theatre, I met a young old
friend. Twenty years before we had made a trip through Central America
and Venezuela. To my surprise, for I had known him in other wars, he
was not in khaki, but in white waistcoat and lawn tie and tail-coat. He
looked as though