I never thought I should live to prove Kipling's lines. But that's what I am--a gentleman ranker; going out to the war of wars--a private. I, and that's the bitterest part of it, I, who had, as you know full well, always, for years, lived for this war, the war against those cursed Germans. I knew it was coming--you'll bear me witness of that fact--and the cruel irony of fate that has made that very knowledge my downfall is not the lightest part of the little bundle fate has thrown on my shoulders. Yes, old man, we're getting near the motives now; but all in good time. Let me lay it out dramatically; don't rob me of my exit--I'm feeling a bit theatrical this evening. It may interest you to know that I saw Lady Delton to-day: she's a V.A.D., and did not recognise me, thank Heaven! (_Need I say again that Delton is not the name he wrote. Sufficient that she and Spud knew one another_ _very well, in other days. But in some men it would have emphasised the bitterness of spirit._) Let's get on with it. A couple of years passed, and the summer of 1912 found me in New York. I was temporarily engaged on a special job which it is unnecessary to specify. It was not a very important one, but, as you know, a gift of tongues and a liking for poking my nose into the affairs of nations had enabled me to get a certain amount of more or less diplomatic work. The job was over, and I was merely marking time in New York waiting for the _Astoria_ to sail. Two days before she was due to leave, and just as I was turning into the doors of my hotel, I ran full tilt into von Basel--a very decent fellow in the Prussian Guard--who was seconded and doing military attache work in America. I'd met him off and on hunting in England--one of the few Germans I know who really went well to hounds. "Hullo! Trevor," he said, as we met. "What are you doing here?" "Marking time," I answered. "Waiting for my boat." We strolled to the bar, and over a cocktail he suggested that if I had nothing better to do I might as well come to some official ball that was on that evening. "I can get you a card," he remarked. "You ought to come; your friend, Mrs. Bathurst--Comtesse de Grecin that was--is going to be present." "I'd no idea she was this side of the water," I said, surprised. "Oh, yes! Come over to see her people or something. Well! will you come?" I agreed, having nothing else on, and as he left the hotel, he laughed. "Funny the vagaries of fate. I don't suppose I come into this hotel once in three months. I only came down this evening to tell a man not to come and call as arranged, as my kid has got measles--and promptly ran into you."