ere to befall us on our journey. In times of stress such as
these one never knows when the War Office may not require the services
of a capable man."

Though the Colonel spoke in jest, in the event his words indicated with
a fair amount of accuracy the destination of the port, for while we
continued to discuss every point in the story, he sipped and sipped and
nodded his head beatifically. I did not replenish my glass, but when we
rose the bottle was empty.

"Well, Colonel, what do you say to a music hall?" I asked.

"My boy," he replied, as he patted me on the back, "I sleep far more
comfortably in my bed."

I realized where the contents of the bottle had gone by the
sententiousness of my friend's phrasing, the slight turgidity, so to
speak, of his articulation.

"My dear boy," he continued, "I have never known you until this moment.
You are greater than Columbus. Any one might discover a new continent,
but in these days it needs exceptional qualities of enterprise and
endurance to discover a fresh restaurant. I am content. Let us go home."

We donned our overcoats and came into the open air. Winter's motor was
waiting at the door in charge of a man from the _garage_ where he had
left it. We stepped in.

CHAPTER III

WHEREIN I MEET THE PIRATE

WE were soon out of the narrow Soho street, and I observed that the time
was just half-past ten as Winter steered us carefully through Piccadilly
Circus. Colonel Maitland occupied a seat behind while I sat beside
Winter.

The car my friend drove was a magnificent 22-horse Daimler, built to his
own specification and capable of doing considerably more than any car I
had hitherto been privileged to ride upon. Of course while passing
through the streets there was little chance of exhibiting its
capabilities. Yet even there, the way the car glided in and out of the
traffic, delicately responsive to the slightest touch of the steering
wheel, was sufficient evidence of its quality to set the most nervous
passenger at ease. As it was as yet too early for the after theatre
traffic to fill the streets and compel us to stop every few minutes, we
followed the main road up Oxford Street as far as the Marble Arch. There
we turned to the right. Once clear of the narrow part of the Edgeware
Road, Winter put on his second speed and a very few minutes seemed to
have passed before we were bumping over a rough bit of roadway by
Cricklewood.

"There's not much of this," said Wi