“I say, of all things,” cried George Trenchard. “What _do_ you think, all of you? Of all the coincidences! This is Mr. Mark. You know, mother dear (this to Mrs. Trenchard, who was waiting calmly for orders), son of Rodney Mark I’ve so often told you of.... Here’s his son, arrived in London yesterday after years’ abroad, out to-night, lost his way in the fog, stopped at first here to enquire, found it of all remarkable things ours where he was coming to call to-morrow!... Did you ever!” “I really must apologise—” began Mr. Mark, smiling at everyone. “Oh no! you mustn’t,” broke in George Trenchard—“Must he, mother? He’s got to stop the night. Of course he has. We’ve got as much room as you like. Here, let me introduce you.” Mr. Mark was led round. He was, most certainly, (as Aunt Betty remarked afterwards upstairs) very quiet and pleasant and easy about it all. He apologised again to Mrs. Trenchard, hadn’t meant to stop more than a moment, so struck by the coincidence, his father had always said first thing he must do in London.... Rocket was summoned—“Mr. Mark will stop here to-night.” “Certainly—of course—anything in the world—” Grandfather was wheeled away, the ladies in the hall hoped that they would see Mr. Mark in the morning and Mr. Mark hoped that _he_ would see _them_. Good-night—good-night.... “Come along now,” cried George Trenchard, taking his guest’s arm. “Come along and have a smoke and a drink and tell us what you’ve been doing all these years!... Why the last time I saw you!...” Mrs. Trenchard, unmoved by this ripple upon the Trenchard waters, stopped for a moment before leaving the drawing-room and called Henry— “Henry dear. Is this your book?” She held up the volume with the yellow Mudie’s label. “Yes, Mother.” “I hope it’s a nice book for you, dear.” “A very nice book, Mother.” “Well I’m sure you’re old enough to know for yourself now.” “Good-night, Mother.” “Good-night, dear.” Henry, with the book under his arm, went up to bed. CHAPTER II THE WINTER AFTERNOON Extracts from a letter written by Philip Mark to Mr. Paul Alexis in Moscow:— “... because, beyond question, it was the oddest chance that I should come—straight out of the fog, into the very house that I wanted. That, mind you, was a week ago, and I’m still here. You’ve never seen a London fog. I defy you to imagine either the choking, stifling nastiness of it or the comfortable happy indifference of English people under it. I couldn’t have struck, if I’d tried for a year, anything more eloquent of the whole position—my position, I mean, and theirs and the probable result of our being up against one another....