“Colonel Gethryn,” said the voice, “who would infinitely prefer to be called Mr. Gethryn, is in his flat, out of bed, and upon his feet. Also he is beginning to become annoyed at——” “Good Lord—Anthony!” said Hastings. “I didn’t recognise your voice.” “Now that you have, O Hastings, perhaps you’ll explain why the hell you’re ringing me up at this hour. I may mention that I am in execrable temper. Proceed.” Spencer Hastings proceeded. “Er—I—ah—that is—er——” “If those are scales,” said the telephone, “permit me to congratulate you.” Hastings tried again. “Something has happened,” he began. “No!” said the telephone. “D’you think you could—I know it’s an extraordinary thing to ask—er, but will you—er——” Miss Margaret Warren rose to her feet, removed the instrument from her employer’s hands, put the receiver to her ear and spoke into the transmitter. “Mr. Gethryn,” she said, “this is Margaret Warren speaking. What Mr. Hastings wished to do was to ask whether you could come down here—to the office—at once. Oh, I know it sounds mad, but we’ve received some amazing news, and Mr. Hastings wishes to consult you. I can’t tell you any more over the phone, but Mr. Hastings is sure that you’ll be willing to help. Please come; it might mean everything to the paper.” “Miss Warren,” said the telephone sadly, “against my will you persuade me.” Chapter II. Anthony Gethryn Anthony Ruthven Gethryn was something of an oddity. A man of action who dreamed while he acted; a dreamer who acted while he dreamed. The son of a hunting country gentleman of the old type, who was yet one of the most brilliant mathematicians of his day, and of a Spanish lady of impoverished and exiled family who had, before her marriage with Sir William Gethryn, been in turn governess, dancer, mannequin, actress, and portrait painter, it was perhaps to be expected that he should be no ordinary child. And he was not. For even after taking into consideration the mixture of blood and talents that were rightly his, Anthony’s parents soon found their only child to be possessed of far more than they had thought to give him. From his birth he proved a refutation of the adage that a Jack-of-all-Trades can be master of none. At school and at Oxford, though appearing almost to neglect work, he covered himself with academic glory which outshone even that of his excellence at racquets and Rugby football. Not only did he follow in the mathematical tracks of his father, but also became known as an historian and man of classics. He left Oxford in his twenty-third year; read for the bar; was called, but did not answer. He went instead round and about the world, and did not, during the three and a half years he was away, use a penny other than earnings of one sort and another.