“Dear me!” Doctor Lennard remarked. “The gossips have covered enough ground! A man at a Bohemian club of which I am a member--the Savage Club, in fact--assured me that he was an opium drugged journalist, kept alive by the charity of a few friends; a human wreck, who was once the editor of an important London paper.” “You have some slight connection with journalism, have you not, Julian?” the Earl asked his son condescendingly. “Have you heard no reports?” “Many,” Julian replied, “but none which I have been disposed to credit. I should imagine, myself, that Paul Fiske is a man who believes, having created a public, that his written words find an added value from the fact that he obviously desires neither reward nor recognition; just in the same way as the really earnest democrats of twenty years ago scoffed at the idea of a seat in Parliament, or of breaking bread in any way with the enemy.” “It was a fine spirit, that,” the Bishop declared. “I am not sure that we are not all of us a little over-inclined towards compromises. The sapping away of conscience is so easy.” The dining-room door was thrown open, and the butler announced a visitor. “Colonel Henderson, your lordship.” They all turned around in their places. The colonel, a fine, military-looking figure of a man, shook hands with Lord Maltenby. “My most profound apologies, sir,” he said, as he accepted a chair. “The Countess was kind enough to say that if I were not able to get away in time for dinner, I might come up afterwards.” “You are sure that you have dined?” “I had something at Mess, thank you.” “A glass of port, then?” The Colonel helped himself from the decanter which was passed towards him and exchanged greetings with several of the guests to whom his host introduced him. “No raids or invasions, I hope, Colonel?” the latter asked. “Nothing quite so serious as that, I am glad to say. We have had a little excitement of another sort, though. One of my men caught a spy this morning.” Every one was interested. Even after three years of war, there was still something fascinating about the word. “Dear me!” Lord Maltenby exclaimed. “I should scarcely have considered our out-of-the-way part of the world sufficiently important to attract attentions of that sort.” “It was a matter of communication,” the Colonel confided. “There was an enemy submarine off here last night, and we have reason to believe that a message was landed. We caught one fellow just at dawn.” “What did you do with him?” the Bishop asked. “We shot him an hour ago,” was the cool reply. “Are there any others at large?” Julian enquired, leaning forward. “One other,” the Colonel acknowledged, sipping his wine appreciatively. “My military police here, however, are very intelligent, and I should think it very doubtful whether he can escape.” “Was the man who was shot a foreigner?” the Earl asked. “I trust that he was not one of my tenants?” “He was a stranger,” was the prompt assurance.