h me whom you'd like to know. I tried to persuade him to
come to the meeting to-night, but he did not feel up to it. He is
convalescing at my place; he's had a baddish time. He could tell you
some good stories, too, that would help you in this recruiting stunt.'

'By all means,' said Sir Roger, to whom I looked, as St. Mabyn spoke.
'I can send you over in the car.'

The next day, about eleven o'clock, I started to pay my promised visit,
and passed through the same beautiful countryside which had so appealed
to me before. I found that St. Mabyn's house was not quite so large as
Granitelands, but it was a place to rejoice in nevertheless. It was
approached by a long avenue of trees, which skirted park lands where
deer disported themselves. Giant oaks studded the park, and the house,
I judged, was built in the Elizabethan period. An air of comfort and
homeliness was everywhere; the grey walls were lichen-covered, and the
diamond-paned, stone-mullioned windows seemed to suggest security and
peace.

'I wonder why he wanted me to come here?' I reflected, as the car drew
up at the old, ivy-covered porch.

CHAPTER IV

I MEET CAPTAIN SPRINGFIELD

I stood at the window of the room into which I had been shown, looking
over the flower-beds towards the beautiful landscape. Devonshire has
been called the Queen of the English counties, perhaps not without
reason. Even my beloved Cornwall could provide no fairer sight than
that which spread itself before me. For a coast scenery, Cornwall is
unrivalled in the whole of England, but for sweet, rustic loveliness, I
had to confess that we had nothing to surpass what I saw that day.

Mile after mile of field, and woodland, in undulating beauty, spread
themselves out before me, while away in the distance was a fringe of
rocky tors and wild moor-land.

At the bottom of the hill on the side of which the house stood ran a
clear, sparkling river, which wound itself away down the valley like a
ribbon of silver, hidden only here and there by trees and brushwood.

So enamoured was I that I stood like one entranced, and did not notice
the two men who had entered, until St. Mabyn spoke.

Captain Horace Springfield was a tall, dark, lean man from thirty to
thirty-five years of age, and from what I learnt afterwards, had spent
a great deal of time abroad. Although still young, his intensely black
hair was becoming tinged with grey, and his deeply-lined cheeks, and
somewhat