rom his book on the mountain systems
of South America. I was interested in his theories and corresponded
with him. As a result of that correspondence he undertook to make a
geological survey for me. I sent him money for his expenses, and he went
off."

"You never saw him?" asked John Lexman, surprised.

Kara shook his head.

"That was not--?" began his host.

"Not like me, you were going to say. Frankly, it was not, but then I
realized that he was an unusual kind of man. I invited him to dine with
me before he left London, and in reply received a wire from Southampton
intimating that he was already on his way."

Lexman nodded.

"It must be an awfully interesting kind of life," he said. "I suppose he
will be away for quite a long time?"

"Three years," said Kara, continuing his examination of the bookshelf.

"I envy those fellows who run round the world writing books," said John,
puffing reflectively at his pipe. "They have all the best of it."

Kara turned. He stood immediately behind the author and the other
could not see his face. There was, however, in his voice an unusual
earnestness and an unusual quiet vehemence.

"What have you to complain about!" he asked, with that little drawl of
his. "You have your own creative work--the most fascinating branch of
labour that comes to a man. He, poor beggar, is bound to actualities.
You have the full range of all the worlds which your imagination
gives to you. You can create men and destroy them, call into existence
fascinating problems, mystify and baffle ten or twenty thousand people,
and then, at a word, elucidate your mystery."

John laughed.

"There is something in that," he said.

"As for the rest of your life," Kara went on in a lower voice, "I think
you have that which makes life worth living--an incomparable wife."

Lexman swung round in his chair, and met the other's gaze, and there was
something in the set of the other's handsome face which took his breath
away.

"I do not see--" he began.

Kara smiled.

"That was an impertinence, wasn't it!" he said, banteringly. "But then
you mustn't forget, my dear man, that I was very anxious to marry your
wife. I don't suppose it is secret. And when I lost her, I had ideas
about you which are not pleasant to recall."

He had recovered his self-possession and had continued his aimless
stroll about the room.

"You must remember I am a Greek, and the modern Greek is no philosopher.
You must remember, too