“Presumably,” I answered a little curtly. “Unless you happen to know her. I have that privilege.” His smile grew a trifle more pronounced though his eyes were set and steady. “Know her?” He beckoned to the waiter for more brandy. “No, I can’t say I know her. In fact, my sole claim to acquaintanceship is that I carried her for three miles in the dark one night, slung over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. But I don’t know her.” “You did what?” I cried, staring at him in amazement. “Sounds a bit over the odds, I admit.” He was carefully cutting the end off his cigar. “Nevertheless it stands.” Now when any man states that he has carried a woman for three miles, whether it be in the dark or not, and has followed up such an introduction so indifferently that the woman fails even to recognise him afterwards, there would seem to be the promise of a story. But when the woman is one of the Lady Sylvia Claverings of this world, and the man is of the type of my dinner companion, the promise resolves itself into a certainty. Merton was one of those indefinable characters who defy placing. You felt that if you landed in Yokohama, and he was with you, you would instinctively rely on him for information as to the best thing to do and the best way to do it. There seemed to be no part of the globe, from the South Sea Islands going westward to Alaska, with which he was not as well acquainted as the ordinary man is with his native village. At the time I did not know him well. The dinner was only our third meeting, and during the meal we confined ourselves to the business which had been the original cause of our running across one another at all. But even in that short time I had realised that Billy Merton was a white man. And not only was he straight, but he was essentially a useful person to have at one’s side in a tight corner. “Are you disposed to elaborate your somewhat amazing statement?” I asked, after a pause. For a moment or two he hesitated, and his eyes became thoughtful. “I don’t suppose there’s any reason why I shouldn’t,” he answered slowly. “It’s ancient history now—ten years or so.” “That was just about the time she was married,” I remarked. He nodded. “She was on her honeymoon when it happened. Well, if you want to hear the yarn, come round to my club.” “Why, certainly,” I said, beckoning for the bill. “Let’s get on at once; I’m curious.” “Do you know Africa at all?” he asked me, as we pulled our chairs up to the fire. We had the room almost to ourselves; a gentle snoring from the other fireplace betokened the only other occupant. “Egypt,” I answered. “Parts of South Africa. The usual thing: nothing out of the ordinary.”