he. "Happy the man who has his
quiver empty."

Sir Angus McCurdie did not reply at once; when he spoke again it was
with reference to their prospective host.

"I met Deverill," said he, "at the Royal Society's Soiree this year. One
of my assistants was demonstrating a peculiar property of thorium and
Deverill seemed interested. I asked him to come to my laboratory the
next day, and found he didn't know a damned thing about anything. That's
all the acquaintance I have with him."

Lord Doyne, the great administrator, who had been wearily turning over
the pages of an illustrated weekly chiefly filled with flamboyant
photographs of obscure actresses, took his gold glasses from his nose
and the black cigar from his lips, and addressed his companions.

"I've been considerably interested in your conversation," said he, "and
as you've been frank, I'll be frank too. I knew Mrs. Deverill's mother,
Lady Carstairs, very well years ago, and of course Mrs. Deverill when
she was a child. Deverill I came across once in Egypt--he had been sent
on a diplomatic mission to Teheran. As for our being invited on such
slight acquaintance, little Mrs. Deverill has the reputation of being
the only really successful celebrity hunter in England. She inherited
the faculty from her mother, who entertained the whole world. We're sure
to find archbishops, and eminent actors, and illustrious divorcees asked
to meet us. That's one thing. But why I, who loathe country house
parties and children and Christmas as much as Biggleswade, am going down
there to-day, I can no more explain than you can. It's a devilish odd
coincidence."

The three men looked at one another. Suddenly McCurdie shivered and drew
his fur coat around him.

"I'll thank you," said he, "to shut that window."

"It is shut," said Doyne.

"It's just uncanny," said McCurdie, looking from one to the other.

"What?" asked Doyne.

"Nothing, if you didn't feel it."

"There did seem to be a sudden draught," said Professor Biggleswade.
"But as both window and door are shut, it could only be imaginary."

"It wasn't imaginary," muttered McCurdie.

Then he laughed harshly. "My father and mother came from Cromarty," he
said with apparent irrelevance.

"That's the Highlands," said the Professor.

"Ay," said McCurdie.

Lord Doyne said nothing, but tugged at his moustache and looked out of
the window as the frozen meadows and bits of river and willows raced
past. A dead silence fell