Desmond and Francis Okewood faced each other across the table in the snug living-room of Desmond’s little service flat in Saint James’s. The curtains were drawn, for it was five o’clock of a winter evening; and the tantalus, siphon, and glasses which filled the tray between them suggested that the two brothers were prepared to celebrate, in their peculiar fashion, the rites of the hour. However, a tea-wagon, appropriately decked out, that stood near the window, indicated that a visitor of less masculine tastes was expected. “Well,” remarked Desmond, resuming his train of thought which he had interrupted to light a cigarette, “if old Clubfoot, as you say, has any money, I’d like to know where he gets it from, that’s all!” Francis grunted. “He’s got it all right, don’t worry,” he retorted, “as Patricia Maxwell will tell you in a minute . . .” “Provided she hasn’t forgotten the appointment,” said Desmond, looking at the clock. “She’ll be here to the tick,” his brother replied, “unless she has altered from what she used to be when I knew her in the States!” “A friend of Monica’s, didn’t you say she was?” (Monica was Francis Okewood’s American wife.) Francis nodded. “They went to the same school in America. We met her again last year in California. That’s why she came to me with this extraordinary story of hers. But here she is, I think!” Old Batts, the valet of the flats, appeared at the door. “Miss Maxwell!” he announced. Patricia Maxwell was of that not uncommon type of American girl who in the daytime looks as though she had stepped out of the current number of a fashion paper, and in the evening as though she would appear in the forthcoming issue. From the crown of her little brown hat to the sole of her neatly shod foot she was absolutely flawless, perfectly coiffed, perfectly dressed, perfectly gloved, perfectly shod. An orphan, her more than comfortable means enabled her, through frequent visits to Europe, to appreciate her country to the full, besides permitting her to admit with impunity her real age which was on the right side of thirty. Her little London house, within a stone’s throw of the Park, was, like herself, a gem of good taste. She knew everybody and liked almost everybody, and everybody liked her. “So this is the famous brother?” she said when Francis introduced Desmond. “If you only knew how perfectly thrilled I am to meet you two together! But you’ll have to promise not to laugh at my story, Major Okewood! I dare say it’ll seem just silly to _you_!” “On the contrary, Miss Maxwell,” Desmond answered with his rather languid air, “I am honestly quite extraordinarily curious to hear it. Believe me, a yarn that’ll interest this brother of mine must be something well out of the ordinary!”