tter if his tie-pin got mislaid?

And then came war to deposit romance and adventure upon our doorsteps.
Mr. Jones was agog with excitement.

Espionage, treachery in high places, the hidden hand--Mr. Jones read
about them all and shuddered with unholy joy. Perhaps he, an obscure
cashier--who could tell? Stranger things had happened.

Meanwhile he devoured all the spy literature he could find, for, as he
once remarked to himself, in dealing with such gentry you have to mind
your P's and QUEUX. It was his only joke.

His literary choice dictated by such considerations, Mr. Jones
picked his way delicately across the platforms till he reached his
compartment, into the corner of which he stretched himself luxuriously
and prepared to enjoy his book.

Just before the train started a lady entered carrying a baby
and--greatly to Mr. Jones's annoyance--took the corner seat opposite
him. Being a confirmed bachelor, he had a horror of all babies,
but this child in particular struck him with disfavour; seldom, he
thought, had he seen such a peevish discontented expression on any
human face.

Close on the lady's heels followed a withered old man of the
traditional professorial type, who seated himself at the other end of
the compartment.

Mr. Jones buried himself in his book. For once, however, the narrative
failed to entertain him. Beautiful spies lavished their witchery in
vain; the sagacity of the hero left him cold.

Suddenly an atmosphere of unrest and agitation conveyed itself to
him. The train was slowing down in the darkness; the lady opposite
was leaning forward, her face pale, her whole attitude tense with
excitement. The train stopped; outside someone was walking along the
metals; there came the sound of a guttural remark.

The lady put her hand to her heart and, turning to the elderly
gentleman, gasped, "Doctor, that was his voice. They have tracked us."

The old man rose quietly and, opening the far door, stood waiting.

"But the child?" she cried with a sob.

"He must be left behind, Madame. There is less danger thus."

"But what am I to do?" She turned to Mr. Jones, looked at him steadily
and fixedly, and then, as if satisfied with what she read in him,
exclaimed, "You have a good heart. You must keep him. Do not let them
have him; too much depends upon it."

And before the astonished cashier had time to protest his
fellow-travellers had gone and he was alone with the child.

But not for long. Just a