"Because you are worthy of doing His work for Him. Has He not used you as His instrument in my own case? Should I not own to this, I who owe everything to you?" The other laid a hand on the great shoulder of the Dop Doctor. "If ever you owed me anything, Saxham, you paid me long ago!" He was silent a moment and said in a lighter tone: "I am not quite clear yet as to how you met my whilom Scoutmaster." "Our acquaintance dates from a cross-Channel flight he made in the end of June." "I know." The Chief prodded the turf with his walking-stick. "A French pilot-officer of their Service Aëronautique, a certain Commandant Raymond, who flew here in the contest for the Ivor International Cup in May, had heard of Sherbrand and his inventions from Lamond of the Central Flying School. He took a shine to the aërial stabiliser and got his Chiefs to give it a trial. That came off on the Grand Prix Sunday, when Paris went wild over the Sarajevo affair." "And scenting War in the air," said Saxham, "Sherbrand promptly took wing for England without waiting for the decision of the judges who were present at the test." "Did he? He has keen scent." "Better now," said Saxham laughing, "than when he came to me—on the recommendation of an old patient—suffering from an aggravated form of nasal catarrh. He had had it at intervals for years, and suspected it to be owing to what he described, in the language of the engineering-shop, as "a defect in the air-intake." He proved to be right—and I sent him into the Hospital, where Berry Boyle performed a slight minor operation which removed the trouble, and left him capitally fit. Then, when he came out of the Hospital, he found a letter from the French Consul waiting at his office——" The Chief interpolated: "Ah yes. The aërial stabiliser had gained the suffrages of Messieurs the Chiefs of the Aëronautique Française. I hope M. Jourdain’s report to his Government will induce them to buy the patent. For, judging by the interest that the representatives of another Power seem to take in——" The Chief broke off. The smiling lines about his eyes and mouth had vanished as he queried: "Who is the lady my Scout over there is squiring? A superbly-shaped young woman, with hair of the fashionable terra-cotta shade. But for the hair, I should have said it was your niece, Patrine." Saxham’s eyes followed the direction of the Chief’s glance. He said, and his face looked hard as a mask of stone: "Your memory for faces is correct as usual. The lady with the terra-cotta hair is my late brother’s daughter, Patrine." The Chief’s familiar whistle filled in a space of silence, with a pensive little fragment of Delius’ _Spring Song_, while Saxham’s frown grew deeper and his jaw thrust out more angrily. Then the well-known voice said: