“Oh, you haven’t been indiscreet. By no means. You’re bound to hear it sooner or later. So why not now? But it will take a little time. What are your engagements?” “My afternoon is at your disposal, sir.” “Very good,” said Baltazar. “I shall now proceed to tell you the amazing story of Spendale Farm, Quong Ho, and the Zeppelin.” Godfrey laughed. Youth that has drunk most of a bottle of perfect champagne can afford to be indulgent. “That has quite an Oriental flavour,” said he. “A blend,” smiled Baltazar. The waiter, previously summoned, brought the bill. Godfrey, shrewd observer, noted with gratification that his father merely glanced at the total, and waved away the waiter with payment and tip all in the fraction of a second. But a little while ago he had lunched, grudgingly dutiful, with his uncle, Sir Richard Woodcott, who, when the bill was presented, had ticked off the items with a gold pencil, comparing the prices with the bill of fare, and had sent for the manager to protest a charge for two portions of potatoes when only one was consumed, he being forbidden potatoes by his medical man. He had raised his voice and made a clatter, and neighbouring parties had smiled derisively and Godfrey had reddened and glowered and wished either that the earth would swallow him up or that hell-fire would engulf his millionaire uncle and trustee. “I see now, sir,” said he, “why I’m always broke to the world.” Baltazar flashed on him. “What do you mean?” “I don’t look at my bills either,” said he. Baltazar bent his keen gaze on his son. The remark had some significance. At first he was puzzled. Then the solution flashed on him. “You’re thinking of that damned Woodcott crowd.” Godfrey gasped. “How on earth do you know that?” “I’ve lived in a country where unless you guess what the other fellow is thinking of, you may be led astray by what he says. It’s a sort of game.” He let the long ash of his cigar fall into his coffee-cup, and, remembering Quong Ho, added, with his queer honesty: “I don’t pretend to be an adept, as you will gather from the tale which I propose to relate. Perhaps arm-chairs in a corner of the lounge might be more comfortable.” They rose. The heavily tipped waiter sprang to aid Godfrey with his crutches. The boy paused. Baltazar waved him courteously on. “Go ahead.” On their way out they passed by a round table at which a large party were assembled. Suddenly a young officer sprang up and laid a hand on Godfrey’s shoulder. “Hallo! Hallo, dear old chap! It’s years since I’ve seen you.” “Not since we’ve been in uniform.” “By Jove, that’s true!” He pointed to the M.C. ribbon. “Splendid, old chap, glorious!” “Glory all right,” laughed Godfrey, “but,” pointing downwards, “_sic transit_——” “Oh, hell!” said the other. “Kinnaird,” said Godfrey, “let me introduce you to my father.”