k
in his chair, looked steadfastly at his guest.

"I believe you can, Julian," he admitted. "Sometimes I am not quite
sure that I understand you. That's the worst of a man with the gift for
silence."

"You're not a great talker yourself," the younger man reminded his host.

"When you get me going on my own subject," Furley remarked, "I find it
hard to stop, and you are a wonderful listener. Have you got any views
of your own? I never hear them."

Julian drew the box of cigarettes towards him.

"Oh, yes, I've views of my own," he confessed. "Some day, perhaps, you
shall know what they are."

"A man of mystery!" his friend jeered good-naturedly.

Julian lit his cigarette and watched the smoke curl upward.

"Let's talk about the duck," he suggested.

The two men sat in silence for some minutes. Outside, the storm seemed
to have increased in violence. Furley rose, threw a log on to the fire
and resumed his place.

"Geese flew high," he remarked.

"Too high for me," Julian confessed.

"You got one more than I did."

"Sheer luck. The outside bird dipped down to me."

Furley filled his guest's glass and then his own.

"What on earth have you kept your shooting kit on for?" the latter
asked, with lazy curiosity.

Furley glanced down at his incongruous attire and seemed for a moment
ill at ease.

"I've got to go out presently," he announced.

Julian raised his eyebrows.

"Got to go out?" he repeated. "On a night like this? Why, my dear
fellow--"

He paused abruptly. He was a man of quick perceptions, and he realised
his host's embarrassment. Nevertheless, there was an awkward pause in
the conversation. Furley rose to his feet and frowned. He fetched a jar
of tobacco from a shelf and filled his pouch deliberately:

"Sorry to seem mysterious, old chap," he said. "I've just a bit of a job
to do. It doesn't amount to anything, but--well, it's the sort of affair
we don't talk about much."

"Well, you're welcome to all the amusement you'll get out of it, a night
like this."

Furley laid down his pipe, ready-filled, and drank off his port.

"There isn't much amusement left in the world, is there, just now?" he
remarked gravely.

"Very little indeed. It's three years since I handled a shotgun before
to-night."

"You've really chucked the censoring?"

"Last week. I've had a solid year at it."

"Fed up?"

"Not exactly that. My own work accumulated so."

"Briefs coming along, eh?"

"I'm a sort of