As a matter of fact, I prefer whiskey."

Mr. Coulson sat down upon the berth. He seemed indisposed for speech.

"I'll leave you now, then," his friend said, buttoning his coat around
him. "You lie flat down on your back, and I think you'll find yourself
all right."

"That brandy," Mr. Coulson muttered, "was infernally--- strong."

His companion smiled and went out. In a quarter of an hour he returned
and locked the door. They were out in the Channel now, and the boat was
pitching heavily. Mr. James B. Coulson, however, knew nothing of it. He
was sleeping like one who wakes only for the Judgment Day. Over his coat
and waistcoat the other man's fingers travelled with curious dexterity.
The oilskin case in which Mr. Coulson was in the habit of keeping his
private correspondence was reached in a very few minutes. The stranger
turned out the letters and read them, one by one, until he came to the
one he sought. He held it for a short time in his hand, looked at the
address with a faint smile, and slipped his fingers lightly along the
gummed edge of the envelope.

"No seal," he said softly to himself. "My friend Mr. Coulson plays the
game of travelling agent to perfection."

He glided out of the cabin with the letter in his hand. In about ten
minutes he returned. Mr. Coulson was still sleeping. He replaced the
letter, pressing down the envelope carefully.

"My friend," he whispered, looking down upon Mr. Coulson's uneasy
figure, "on the whole, I have been perhaps a little premature. I think
you had better deliver this document to its proper destination. If only
there was to have been a written answer, we might have met again! It
would have been most interesting."

He slipped the oilskin case back into the exact position in which he had
found it, and watched his companion for several minutes in silence. Then
he went to his dressing bag and from a phial mixed a little draught.
Lifting the sleeping man's head, he forced it down his throat.

"I think," he said, "I think, Mr. Coulson, that you had better wake up."

He unlocked the door and resumed his promenade of the deck. In the bows
he stood for some time, leaning with folded arms against a pillar, his
eyes fixed upon the line of lights ahead. The great waves now leaped
into the moonlight, the wind sang in the rigging and came booming across
the waters, the salt spray stung his cheeks. High above his head, the
slender mast, with its Marconi attachment, swang and dived