clever little
parodies; he may amuse us in the future; but as a statesman we can
only view him with disgust...."

"Well?" said Lionel at last. "I think your lordship is wise enough to
understand. The discovery of a sense of humour in a man of your
eminence----"

But Lord Fairlie was already writing out the cheque.

THE EXPLORER

As the evening wore on--and one young man after another asked Jocelyn
Montrevor if she were going to Ascot, what? or to Henley, what? or
what?--she wondered more and more if this were all that life would ever
hold for her. Would she never meet a man, a real man who had _done_
something? These boys around her were very pleasant, she admitted to
herself; very useful indeed, she added, as one approached her with some
refreshment; but they were only boys.

"Here you are," said Freddy, handing her an ice in three colours. "I've
had it made specially cold for you. They only had the green, pink, and
yellow jerseys left; I hope you don't mind. The green part is arsenic, I
believe. If you don't want the wafer I'll take it home and put it
between the sashes of my bedroom window. The rattling kept me awake all
last night. That's why I'm looking so ill, by the way."

Jocelyn smiled kindly and went on with her ice.

"That reminds me," Freddy went on, "we've got a nut here to-night. The
genuine thing. None of your society Barcelonas or suburban Filberts. One
of the real Cob family; the driving-from-the-sixth-tee,
inset-on-the-right, and New-Year's-message-to-the-country touch. In
short, a celebrity."

"Who?" asked Jocelyn eagerly. Perhaps here was a man.

"Worrall Brice, the explorer. Don't say you haven't heard of him or Aunt
Alice will cry."

Heard of him? Of course she had heard of him. Who hadn't?

Worrall Brice's adventures in distant parts of the empire would have
filled a book--had, in fact, already filled three. A glance at his flat
in St. James's Street gave you some idea of the adventures he had been
through. Here were the polished spurs of his companion in the famous
ride through Australia from south to north--all that had been left by
the cannibals of the Wogga-Wogga River after their banquet. Here was the
poisoned arrow which, by the merciful intervention of Providence, just
missed Worrall and pierced the heart of one of his black attendants, the
post-mortem happily revealing the presence of a new and interesting
poison. Here, again, was the rope with which he was ha