Stopping under a lamp, and leaning over the Embankment, I gazed at the lights of a small steamer, puffing its way busily down the Thames. A great desire to get out of this choking atmosphere of so-called civilisation suddenly gripped me with irresistible force. I seemed to taste the smack of the salt sea upon my lips, to smell again the warm, sweet breath of the open pampas. My heart beat faster and stronger, and I found myself muttering some lines of Kipling--the only poet I've ever cared two straws about-- "The days are sick and cold, and the skies are grey and old, And the twice breathed airs grow damp; And I'd sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll Of a south Bilbao tramp." Yes, that was what I wanted: the sea, and the sun, and the plains, and, above all, life--raw, naked life, with its laughter and its fighting, far away from these stifling streets where men's hearts grow smug and cold. I threw back my arms, and took in a deep breath. "My God!" I muttered, half aloud. "I'm out of this for good and all." "I congratulate you," said a voice. CHAPTER II My nerves are under pretty good control, but I must confess that I jumped a little at this unexpected interruption. Wheeling round, I found myself face to face with a tall, broad-shouldered man in evening dress, which was half concealed by a long fawn-coloured overcoat. For a moment his features seemed strangely familiar, and I stared at him, wondering where I had seen them last. Then suddenly the truth hit me fair and square. "Good Lord!" I said, "are you a looking-glass?" Except for his clothes, the man was the exact image of myself. He smiled--a curious smile that ended with his lips, and had no effect at all on the cold, steady blue eyes that were taking in every detail of my appearance. "A most remarkable likeness," he observed quietly. "I never thought I was so good-looking." I bowed. "And I never realised how well-dressed I was," I returned in the same half-mocking tone. It was his turn to start, though the motion was almost imperceptible. "Even our voices!" he muttered. "Who was the fool who said that miracles don't happen?" I shook my head. "The likeness," I said, "appears to extend to our ignorance." There was a short silence, during which we still looked each other up and down with the same frank interest. Then he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a slim, gold card-case. "My name," he said, "is Stuart Northcote. You may have heard of it." He held out a card. I don't think I showed my surprise, though goodness knows I felt it. Like most people in London, I had certainly heard of Stuart Northcote. Indeed, I could hardly have avoided doing so, considering that the Society papers had been full of little else but his doings and his wealth ever since he appeared mysteriously from nowhere at the beginning of the season, and rented Lord Lammersfield's house in Park Lane.