“You surprise me,” said Sam. “I have always looked on you as one of those tough old salts who can’t be happy away from deep waters. I thought you sang chanteys in your sleep. Well, that’s splendid. You had better go straight down to the house and start getting things fixed up. Here’s the key. Write the address down--Mon Repos, Burberry Road, Valley Fields.” A sharp crash rang through the room. The man at the bar, who had finished his cocktail and was drinking a whisky and soda, had dropped his glass. “’Ere!” exclaimed the barmaid, startled, a large hand on the left side of her silken bosom. The man paid no attention to her cry. He was staring with marked agitation at Sam and his companion. “How do I get there?” asked Hash. “By train or bus--there’s any number of ways.” “And I can go straight into the house?” “Yes; I’ve taken it from this morning.” Sam hurried out. Hash, pausing to write down the address, became aware that he was being spoken to. “Say, pardon me,” said the fine-looking man who was clutching at his sleeve. “Might I have a word with you, brother?” “Well?” said Hash suspiciously. The last time an American had addressed him as brother it had cost him eleven dollars and seventy-five cents. “Did I understand your pal who’s gone out to say that he had rented a house named Mon Repos down in Valley Fields?” “Yes, you did. What of it?” The man did not reply. Consternation was writ upon his face, and he passed a hand feebly across his broad forehead. The silence was broken by the cold voice of the barmaid. “That’ll be threepence I’ll kindly ask you for, for that glass,” said the barmaid. “And if,” she added with asperity, “you ’ad to pay for the shock you give me, it ’ud cost you a tenner.” “Girlie,” replied the man sadly, watching Hash as he shambled through the doorway, “you aren’t the only one that’s had a shock.” § 2 While Sam was walking down Fleet Street on his way to Tilbury House, thrilled with the joy of existence and swishing the air jovially with his newly purchased wanghee, in Tilbury House itself the proprietor of the Mammoth Publishing Company was pacing the floor of his private office, his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, his eyes staring bleakly before him. Lord Tilbury was a short, stout, commanding-looking man, and practically everything he did had in it something of the Napoleonic quality. His demeanour now suggested Napoleon in captivity, striding the deck of the _Bellerophon_ with vultures gnawing at his breast. So striking was his attitude that his sister, Mrs. Frances Hammond, who had called to see him, as was her habit when business took her into the neighbourhood of Tilbury House, paused aghast in the doorway, while the obsequious boy in buttons who was ushering her in frankly lost his nerve and bolted. “Good gracious, Georgie!” she cried. “What’s the matter?”