"Looks like it might be a red silk muffler, Jenkins," I exclaimed in disgust. By Jove, I was never so devilish disappointed in my life--never--I'm sure of it! If I had been a girl I should have cried--dash it, I know I should. I pinched the roll gloomily. "If it's a red silk muffler, Jenkins, catch me wearing it, that's all!" I burst out indignantly. "Rotten bad form, if you ask _me_. I'd look like an out-and-out bounder!" Then I had a horrible thought: "Or--or the Salvation Army, dash it!" Here Jenkins thrust a letter at me. "Perhaps this may explain it, sir," he suggested. Sure enough, it was from Hong Kong, and from that chap, Mastermann. Out there on special mission for his government, he said. I don't know what it was--never did know, in fact, for I skipped down to this paragraph, which I read aloud: "Every puff of those rare cigars you sent me has but reminded me that my debt to you is still unpaid." I read thus far; then I read it again. But I could make nothing of it. "Cigars--cigars?" I exclaimed, puzzled. Then I forgot the letter as I stared at Jenkins. "And what's the matter with _you_?" I demanded. For I had caught him with his hand over his mouth, obviously trying to suppress a chuckle. He sobered instantly, but seemed embarrassed for a reply. "Oh, I say, you know!" I urged him. He started to speak, then pulled up. His breath went out in a sort of sigh. And he just stood there looking at me, and looking kind of scared. Fact! Perfectly irreproachable service for five years; and now here, dash it, showing emotion and that sort of thing, just like--well, like _people_, by Jove! Gad, I don't mind saying I was devilish put out! I screwed my glass rather severely and he made another go: "I hope, Mr. Lightnut, sir, you'll try to pardon me, sir, but I--Well, indeed, sir, the mistake wasn't mine; it was the dealer's fault, you know, sir." "Oh!" I stared, polished my glass and nodded. I even chirped up a smile, but I didn't utter a word. Dash it, what _was_ there to say? But you mustn't let _them_ know that, you know. So I just waited, and he squirmed a little and went on: "It was too late after he told me about the mistake; and I was--well, I was afraid to mention it to you, sir." "Mistake! What mistake?" He gulped; dashed if I didn't think he was going to choke. "I--I'm sure, sir, I wouldn't have had such a thing happen for--" I could stand it no longer. "Oh, I say! I haven't any idea what you're talking about!" Jenkins cleared his throat with an effort, his eyes rolling at me apologetically. When he spoke there was a tremble in his utterance, and it was rather husky: "Why, sir," he began in a low tone, "you told me to have your dealer ship this gentleman, this Mr. Mastermann, a dozen boxes of Paloma perfectos--your favorite brand, you know, sir--ninety dollars the hundred." He paused, his fingers resting tremblingly on the edge of the table.