He set down the newspaper with a little sigh, put his feet on the cushions of the opposite seat and gave himself up to reverie. Presently he returned to his journals and searched them idly for something to interest him in the final stretch of journey between Newbury and Paddington. Presently he found it in a two column article with the uninspiring title, “The Mineral Wealth of Tierra del Fuego.” It was written brightly with a style which was at once easy and informative. It told of adventures in the marshes behind St. Sebastian Bay and journeys up the Guarez Celman river, of nights spent in primeval forests and ended in a geological survey, wherein the commercial value of syenite, porphyry, trachite and dialite were severally canvassed. The article was signed “G. G.” It is said of T. X. that his greatest virtue was his curiosity. He had at the tip of his fingers the names of all the big explorers and author-travellers, and for some reason he could not place “G. G.” to his satisfaction, in fact he had an absurd desire to interpret the initials into “George Grossmith.” His inability to identify the writer irritated him, and his first act on reaching his office was to telephone to one of the literary editors of the Times whom he knew. “Not my department,” was the chilly reply, “and besides we never give away the names of our contributors. Speaking as a person outside the office I should say that 'G. G.' was 'George Gathercole' the explorer you know, the fellow who had an arm chewed off by a lion or something.” “George Gathercole!” repeated T. X. “What an ass I am.” “Yes,” said the voice at the other end the wire, and he had rung off before T. X. could think of something suitable to say. Having elucidated this little side-line of mystery, the matter passed from the young Commissioner's mind. It happened that morning that his work consisted of dealing with John Lexman's estate. With the disappearance of the couple he had taken over control of their belongings. It had not embarrassed him to discover that he was an executor under Lexman's will, for he had already acted as trustee to the wife's small estate, and had been one of the parties to the ante-nuptial contract which John Lexman had made before his marriage. The estate revenues had increased very considerably. All the vanished author's books were selling as they had never sold before, and the executor's work was made the heavier by the fact that Grace Lexman had possessed an aunt who had most inconsiderately died, leaving a considerable fortune to her “unhappy niece.” “I will keep the trusteeship another year,” he told the solicitor who came to consult him that morning. “At the end of that time I shall go to the court for relief.” “Do you think they will ever turn up?” asked the solicitor, an elderly and unimaginative man.