rland air. Thereafter they pulled armchairs to a window,
and lit the pipes of contentment. Wratislaw stretched his arms on the
sill and looked out into the fragrant darkness.

"Any news, Tommy?" asked his host. "Things seem lively in the East."

"Very, but I am ill-informed. Did you lay no private lines of
communication in your travels?"

"They were too short. I picked up a lot of out-of-the-way hints, but as
I am not a diplomatist I cannot use them. I think I have already made
you a present of most. By the by, I see from the papers that an
official expedition is going north from Bardur. What idiot invented
that?"

Wratislaw pulled his head in and sat back in his chair. "You are sure
you don't happen to know?"

"Sure. But it is just the sort of canard which the gentry on the other
side of the frontier would invent to keep things quiet. Who are the
Englishmen at Bardur now?"

The elder man looked shrewdly at the younger, who was carelessly pulling
a flower to pieces. "There's Logan, whom you know, and Thwaite and
Gribton."

"Good men all, but slow in the uptake. Logan is a jewel. He gave me
the best three days' shooting I ever dreamed of, and he has more stories
in his head than George. But if matters got into a tangle I would
rather not be in his company. Thwaite is a gentlemanlike sort of
fellow, but dull-very, while Gribton is the ordinary shrewd commercial
man, very cautious and rather timid."

"Did you ever happen to hear of a man called Marka? He might call
himself Constantine Marka, or Arthur Marker, or the Baron Mark--whatever
happened to suit him."

Lewis puzzled for a little. "Yes, of course I did. By George! I
should think so. It was a chap of that name who had gone north the week
before I arrived. They said he would never be heard of again. He
seemed a reckless sort of fool."

"You didn't see him?"

"No. But why?"

"Simply that you came within a week of meeting one of the cleverest men
living, a cheerful being whom the Foreign Office is more interested in
than any one else in the world. If you should hear again of Constantine
Marka, Marker, or Mark, please note it down."

"You mean that he is the author of the _canard_," said Lewis, with sharp
eyes, taking up a newspaper.

"Yes, and many more. This graceful person will complicate things for
me, for I am to represent the Office in the Commons if we get back with
a decent majority."

Lewis held out a cordial hand. "I congratulate you, Tommy