the fall of Kut, the over-running of
Roumania, or the tragedy of Caporetto. National disaster he could bear
with a stoical calm befitting in a man of long ancestry; but personal
discomfort reduced him to a state of acute nervousness.

The Hun ravaged Belgium, invaded Russia, over-ran Lombardy; Mr. Blair
was appropriately shocked and, on occasion, expressed his indignation
in a restrained and well-bred manner; but John Dene crashing in upon
the atmosphere of intellectual quiet and material content with which
Mr. Blair was surrounded, ravaged his nerves and produced in him
something of a mental palpitation. Therefore of the two events the
irruptions of John Dene were infinitely more disturbing to Mr. Blair
than those of the hordes of the modern Attila.

Mr. Blair sat at his table, pen in hand, before him a pad of virgin
blotting paper. His thoughts had wandered back to a dinner-party at
which he had been present the previous night. His eyes were fixed upon
an antique family ring he wore upon the fourth finger of his left-hand.
The dinner had been a success, a conspicuous success. He was conscious
of having shone by virtue of the tactful way in which he had parried
certain direct and rather impertinent questions of a professional
nature addressed to him by one of the guests. They related to the
disappearance of John Dene. Mr. Blair had experienced an additional
gratification from the discovery that he had been able to hear
mentioned the name of John Dene without experiencing an inward thrill
of misgiving.

As he sat this morning, pen in hand, he pondered over the subject of
John Dene in relation to himself, Reginald Blair. Possibly he had been
a little weak in not standing more upon his dignity with this rough and
uncouth colonial. In such cases a bold and determined front was all
that was necessary. Of course there would have been one great contest,
and Mr. Blair detested such things; but--yes, he had been weak. In
future he----

"Here, who the hell's shut my offices, and where's Miss West?"

The pen slipped from Mr. Blair's limp hand, and his jaw dropped as he
found himself gazing up into the angry eyes of John Dene, who had
entered the room like a tornado.

"This ain't a seal tank and it's not feeding time," cried John Dene
angrily. "Who's shut my offices?" Then with a sudden look in the
direction of the door he called out, "Here, come in, Jasp."

Mr. Blair looked more than ever like a seal as he ga