“The old brain was working pretty quickly by this time. No one, whatever his business, would object to a _bona fide_ journalist writing an account of a fête, and if the business were crooked, the people engaged on it would be the first to speed that journalist on his way. People of that type dislike journalists only one degree less than the police. Then why—why? The answer simply stuck out—they suspected me of not being a journalist, or, even if they did not go as far as that, they were taking no chances on the matter. “In fact, I was by this time definitely convinced in my own mind that I had quite unwittingly stumbled into a bunch of criminals, and it struck me that the sooner I stumbled out again the better for my health. So I put my article in my pocket and went to the door. I would wire it off, and I would not return. “The first hitch occurred at the door, which had thoughtfully been locked. Not being a hero of fiction, I confess it gave me a nasty shock—that unyielding door. And as I stood there taking a pull at myself I heard the grey-haired man’s voice outside the window: “‘Finished yet, Mr. Graham?’ “I walked across the room, and in as steady a voice as I could muster I mentioned the fact that the door was locked. “‘So that you shouldn’t be disturbed, Mr. Graham’—and I thought of the Wolf in ‘Red Riding Hood,’ with his satisfactory answers to all awkward questions. “‘If someone would open it, I’ll get along to the telegraph office,’ I remarked. “‘I wouldn’t dream of your going to so much trouble,’ he said suavely. ‘I’ve a lazy boy I employ in the garden; he’ll take it.’ “For a moment I hesitated, and a glint came into his eyes, which warned me to be careful. “It was then that I had my brainstorm. If I hadn’t had it I shouldn’t be here now; if the powers that be in the newspaper world were not the quickest people on the uptake you can meet in a day’s march, I shouldn’t be here now either. But like a flash of light there came to my mind the story I had once been told of how a war correspondent in the South African War, at a time when they were tightening the censorship, got back full news of a battle by alluding to the rise and fall of certain stock. And the editor in England read between the lines—substituted troops for stocks, Canadians for C.P.R., and so on—and published the only account of the battle. “Could I do the same? I hesitated. “‘Oh! there’s one thing I’ve forgotten,’ I remarked. ‘I’ll just add it if the boy can wait.’ “So I sat down at the table, and to my report I added the following sentences: “‘There was also some excellent mustard and cress. Will come at once, but fear to-morrow morning may be too late for me to be of further use over Ronaldshay affair.’ “And then I handed it to the grey-haired man through the window.” The Writer leant back in his chair, and the Soldier stared at him, puzzled. “It’s a bit too cryptic for me,” he confessed.