"Why should it?" asked Micklewright in unaffected surprise. He looked puzzled when Burton laughed; then remembrance dawned in his eyes. "Of course; I recollect now. You went after those foreigners. I had almost forgotten them." "Forgotten the beggars who had stolen your secret?" cried Burton. "Hittite! Well, you see, it was gone; no good pulling a long face over it, though it was a blow after three years’ work. I groused all day Sunday, but recognised it as a case of spilt milk, and this morning started on a new tack. I’m on the scent of something else. Whether it will be any good or not I can’t say yet." "Surely you got detectives down?" "Well, no, I didn’t. It’s much the best to keep such things quiet. The fellows had got away with the stuff, and before the police could have done anything they’d be out of reach. So I just buckled to." "Very philosophic of you!" said Burton drily. "I needn’t have put myself about, then. Well, hand over fifty francs, and I’ll cry quits." "Fifty--francs, did you say? Won’t shillings do?" "No; I was fined in francs. I won’t take advantage of you." "I seem to be rather at sea," said Micklewright. "Have the French started air laws, and you broken ’em and been nabbed? But what were you doing in France?" "Come and let’s have some dinner," said Burton, putting his arm through his friend’s. "I’m sure you don’t eat enough. Any one will tell you that want of proper grub makes you dotty." Micklewright locked up the laboratory, and went on with Burton to the house. Burton found his suit-case in the spare room and was glad to make a rapid toilet and change of clothes. In twenty minutes he was at one end of the dining-table, facing Micklewright at the other, and old Mrs. Jones was carrying in the soup. Burton waited, before beginning his story, until Micklewright had disposed of an excellent steak, and "looked more human," as he said; then-- "Since I saw you last, I’ve been to Ostend," he began. "Jolly good oysters there," said Micklewright. "Ah! You’re sane at last! I didn’t go for oysters, though; I went for--Hittite." "You don’t mean to say----" cried Micklewright. "Don’t be alarmed," Burton interrupted. "There’s none there now. Just listen without putting your spoke in, will you!" He related the incidents of his flights to Folkestone and Dover, his pursuit of the steamer, and the trick by which he had been taken on board. "And then I made an ass of myself," he continued. "But it’s owing--partly at any rate--to your lucid description, Pickles. Tall, stout, bald, moustache, brown bag; all the details to a T. I got into conversation with the man, and when it turned out that he was a motor-cyclist, knew the Dover Road, and had something in his bag that was going to make a noise in the world, I made sure I’d got the right man.