on, some to catch trains to the suburbs, some to their
chambers in town, and others to round off the evening with some livelier
form of amusement. The Rovers had premises on the fourth floor of a
large building near the Hippodrome. Its membership consisted principally
of business and professional men, but there was also a sprinkling of
members of Parliament, political secretaries, and minor government
officials, who, though its position was not ideal, were attracted to it
because of the moderation of its subscription and the excellence of its
cuisine.

The evening was calm, and the sounds from the street below seemed to
float up lazily to the little group in the open window, as the smoke
of their pipes and cigars floated up lazily to the ceiling above.
The gentle hum of the traffic made a pleasant accompaniment to their
conversation, as the holding down of a soft pedal fills in and supports
dreamy organ music. But for the six young men in the bow window the
room was untenanted, save for a waiter who had just brought some fresh
drinks, and who was now clearing away empty glasses from an adjoining
table.

The talk had turned on foreign travel, and more than one member had
related experiences which he had undergone while abroad. Merriman was
tired and had been rather silent, but it was suddenly borne in on him
that it was his duty, as one of the hosts of the evening, to contribute
somewhat more fully towards the conversation. He determined to relate
his little adventure at the sawmill of the Pit-Prop Syndicate. He
therefore lit a fresh cigar, and began to speak.

"Any of you fellows know the country just south of Bordeaux?" he asked,
and, as no one responded, he went on: "I know it a bit, for I have to go
through it every year on my trip round the wine exporters. This year
a rather queer thing happened when I was about half an hour's run
from Bordeaux; absolutely a trivial thing and of no importance, you
understand, but it puzzled me. Maybe some of you could throw some light
on it?"

"Proceed, my dear sir, with your trivial narrative," invited Jelfs,
a man sitting at one end of the group. "We shall give it the weighty
consideration which it doubtless deserves."

Jelfs was a stockbroker and the professional wit of the party. He was a
good soul, but boring. Merriman took no notice of the interruption.

"It was between five and six in the evening," he went on, and he told
in some detail of his day's run, culminating in