“Must be Brack!” he agreed, making as if he would tear the page across, and then, since, after all, it was sacred speech, however distorted, folding it and slipping it into his pocket. “The same trail of omniscience is over it all! I ran into him in Witham on Saturday, and suggested that, if he was really bothered over the matter, we might put him on to some other place. ’Tisn’t business, but it might save us trouble in the end, and Thweng won’t go wanting. However, he wasn’t having any--talked about sticking to the ship and holding by the fort, like Casabianca and Sankey and Moody mixed. That annoyed me a bit, though he was quite quiet and polite--didn’t even offer me his confounded Turkish cigarettes! Just as we separated, he asked quite casually whether I believed in clairvoyance. I said no rather shortly, for I was keen to be off. (I’d have said no, in any case, to _him_.) Then he told me he’d come across a lot of it in America, been rather thick with some chap who went in for it professionally, and would have it Brack had the gift, too. This fellow gave him some rather curious information--the name of the farm he would take in England, for instance. That was certainly queer. Thweng isn’t the sort of name you’d naturally get your tongue round without a little assistance! He looked as if he could tell me a lot more if he chose, only I didn’t stop for it. He rapped out something after me, but I didn’t catch any of it except the word ‘wool.’ Wonder if he sits up all night with his Trilby and his Turks, summoning spirits! He’s been fearfully ragged by the rest of the marsh-men, by the way. Denny left a parcel at Thweng, the other day, which turned out to be some old bathing-togs he had dug up somewhere!” The train moved off, and he walked a few yards with it. “You won’t be up again just yet, I suppose?” Bluecaster shook his head. “Not to stop. I’ll run up for the Show, and I’ll be home for the audits as usual. I’m shooting a good bit, and then going abroad. Christmas in Cairo. But I’ll be back altogether”--he leaned out and called as the train gathered speed, his expression half-laughing, half-earnest--“I’ll be back--in _March_!” Lanty found his guests reinforced by Wiggie when he got home at last. They were seated round a table in the drawing-room, engaged in an impromptu foxhunt evolved by the singer, by means of dice, a surprising collection of knick-knacks, and the pot dogs off the mantelpiece. He had spent the day in Manchester with Hamer, and looked paler than ever and desperately tired, but he hunted with the infectious zest of a Troughton or a Peel. Even the host, standing with his back to the cheerless grate, smiled as he watched the absurd game.