newspapers, I have decided to here reveal some
very curious and, perhaps, sensational circumstances.

In fact, after much perplexity and long consideration, I have
resolved, without seeking grace or favor, to make a clean breast of
all that happened to me, and to leave the reader to judge of my
actions, and either to condemn or to condone my offenses.

I will begin at the beginning.

It has been said that service in the Army has upset the average man's
chances of prosperity in civil life. That, I regret, is quite true.

When I, George Hargreave, came out of the Army after the Armistice, I
found myself, like many hundreds of other ex-officers, completely at a
loose end, without a shilling in the world over and above the gratuity
of between two and three hundred pounds to which my period of
commissioned service entitled me.

Grown accustomed during the war, however, to fending for myself and
overcoming difficulties and problems of one sort and another, I at
once set to work to look about for any kind of employment for which I
fancied I might be fitted. After answering many advertisements to no
purpose, I one day happened upon one in _The Times_ which rather
stirred my curiosity.

It stated that a gentleman of good position, who had occasion to
travel in many parts of the world, would like to hear from a young man
with considerable experience in motor driving. The applicant should
not be over thirty, and it was essential that he should be a gentleman
and well educated, with a knowledge of foreign languages if possible;
also that he should be thoroughly trustworthy and possessed of
initiative. The salary would be a very liberal one.

Application was to be made by letter only to a certain box at the
office of _The Times_.

I wrote at once, and received some days later a reply signed "_per
pro_ Rudolph Rayne," asking me to call to see the advertiser, who said
he would be awaiting me at a certain small hotel-de-luxe in the West
End at three o'clock on the following afternoon.

I arrived at the highly aristocratic hotel at five minutes to three,
and was conducted to a private sitting-room by a page who, on ushering
me in, indicated a good-looking, middle-aged man seated near the
window, reading a newspaper and smoking a cigar.

The gentleman looked up as I approached, then put down his paper,
rose, and extended his hand.

"Mr. George Hargreave?" he inquired in a pleasant voice.

"Yes. Mr. Rudolph Rayne, I presum