"My dear Jim," expostulated his guest of honour, half an hour later, "there is not a drop of green Chartreuse, and you know I never drink the yellow. Do be a good boy and run over to the dining-room, and persuade the steward to give us some." As he rose and left them, obedient to the Irish girl's request, she leaned over to Kingsland, who was seated next her, and handing him a square envelope, said quietly, and in a low voice:-- "I want this given to Colonel Darcy before Stanley returns--his party is still in the dining-room. Don't let our crowd see you take it." "Oh, I say," he expostulated, inspecting the missive which was blank and undirected, "it's a risky thing to do, especially in the face of the whopper you just told his wife about not knowing him." "I had to, 'Dottie'--I had indeed--she's so jealous she would tear the eyes out of any woman who ventured to speak to him." "I won't do anything for you if you call me 'Dottie.' You know I hate it." "Well, Jack then--dear Jack--do it to please me and don't stand there talking, Stanley may return any minute." "All right, I'll go." "And don't flourish that envelope, it's most important and--it's too late." "The Chartreuse is coming," broke in the Secretary. "I met the steward in the hall--a letter to be posted?" he continued, seeing the missive, which the Lieutenant held blankly in his hand. "Give it to me, and I'll attend to it." A sharper man might have saved the situation, but sharpness was not one of Kingsland's attributes, and dazed by the sudden turn of affairs, he allowed Stanley to take the letter. "Why, it's not addressed!" he exclaimed, examining the envelope which bore no mark save the initials A. R. in blue, on the flap. "Whom is it to go to?" "I don't know," replied the Lieutenant, shamefacedly. "Where did it come from?" Kingsland looked about for help or an inspiration, and finding neither fell back on the same form of words, repeating, "I don't know." Miss Fitzgerald had started up on the impulse of the moment, but sank back in her seat as the Secretary said, slipping the missive into the inside pocket of his dress-coat:-- "I am afraid I must constitute myself a dead-letter office, and hold this mysterious document till called for." CHAPTER III PARLOUS TIMES "We are living in parlous times," said the Chief Confidential Clerk, of the Departmental Head of the South American Section of Her Majesty's Foreign Office. Mr. Stanley, Secretary of South American Legation, bowed and said nothing. Inwardly, he wondered just what "parlous" meant, and made a mental note to look it up in a dictionary on the first opportunity that offered.