on the diplomatic situation. Months afterwards I
remembered what he had said that night and how accurate had been his
forecast. He talked brilliantly for over an hour, during which, keenly
interested in his arguments, I lost the puzzle of the man in admiration
of the fine soldier and clear and daring thinker. It was only when he
had gone that I began to worry again.

And before I went to sleep I had fresh cause for anxious speculation.

"Marigold," said I, when he came in as usual to carry me to bed,
"didn't I tell you that Major Boyce particularly wanted no one to know
that he was in the town?"

"Yes, sir," said Marigold. "I've told nobody."

"And yet you showed him in without informing him that Mrs. Connor was
here. Really you ought to have had more tact."

Marigold received his reprimand with the stolidity of the old soldier.
I have known men who have been informed that they would be
court-martialled and most certainly shot, make the same reply.

"Very good, sir," said he.

I softened. I was not Marigold's commanding officer, but his very
grateful friend. "You see," said I, "they were engaged before Mrs.
Connor married--I needn't tell you that; it was common knowledge--and
so their sudden meeting was awkward."

"Mrs. Marigold has already explained, sir," said he.

I chuckled inwardly all the way to my bedroom.

"All the same, sir," said he, aiding me in my toilet, which he did with
stiff military precision, "I don't think the Major is as incognighto"
(the spelling is phonetic) "as he would like. Prettilove was shaving me
this morning and told me the Major was here. As I considered it my
duty, I told him he was a liar, and he was so upset that he nicked my
Adam's apple and I was that covered with blood that I accused him of
trying to cut my throat, and I went out and finished shaving myself at
home, which is unsatisfactory when you only have a thumb on your right
hand to work the razor."

I laughed, picturing the scene. Prettilove is an inoffensive little
rabbit of a man. Marigold might sit for the model of a war-scarred
mercenary of the middle ages, and when he called a man a liar he did it
with accentuaton and vehemence. No wonder Prettilove jumped.

"And then again this evening, sir," continued Marigold, slipping me
into my pyjama jacket, "as I was starting the Major's car, who should
be waiting there for him but Mr. Gedge."

"Gedge?" I cried.

"Yes, sir. Waiting by the side of the car. 'Can I have