It was the forty-third meeting of the Problem Club. Dinner was over, and the members had adjourned to the lofty and comfortable room where the business of the evening was transacted. A side-table was suitably equipped with provision for smokers—all the members were smokers—and for such other refreshments as might be required in the course of the evening. One or two waiters still lingered—removing a coffee-cup, handing a liqueur, or placing an ash-tray and matches conveniently on one of the small tables. A hum of conversation went on through the blue haze of the cigar-smoke. Mr Pusely-Smythe, with his usual lugubrious manner, was just coming to the end of a screamingly funny story. Any reference to the competition to be settled is by an unwritten law forbidden until the chairman has opened the proceedings, but it was noticeable that Major Byles was once more talking of resigning his membership. He was not taken very seriously. He was an original member, and, though he lived in the country for the greater part of the year, had never been known to miss a single meeting of the club. His continuous bad luck in the competitions had irritated him, but nobody believed in his threat of resignation, and it may be doubted if he quite believed in it himself. The waiters left the room, and Sir Charles Bunford, an elderly gentleman of distinguished appearance, who was chairman for the evening, took his place at his table and arranged his papers. Among them the club cheque-book showed temptingly. In accordance with the club custom by which the chairman at one meeting acted as secretary at the next, Dr Alden took his seat beside Sir Charles and prepared to make a note of the proceedings for the club minute-book. Conversation ceased. The other members seated themselves informally in a semicircle of easy-chairs. There was, indeed, a marked absence of formality at the Problem Club. There was no order of precedence. The chairman did not rise when he spoke, nor did members rise when they answered him. ‘Now, gentlemen,’ Sir Charles began, ‘we have before us to-night the Giraffe Problem. I will read it out to you as worded by our esteemed friend Leonard: “It is required to induce a woman who is unaware of your intention to say to you, ‘You ought to have been a giraffe.’” Now, of course, I’m not a competitor, but I must say that I’m sorry I’m not. Upon my word, I don’t think Leonard has ever given us anything quite so easy.’ There were several dissentient voices: ‘Not a bit of it.’ ‘Can’t agree with you there, Bunford.’ ‘Wish I’d found it so.’ ‘Leonard knew what he was doing this time.’