“Not if they knew you well, certainly.” “It’s a perfectly good job—nothing wrong with it whatsoever.” “Not in South America by any lucky chance? I’ve rather got my eye on South America. There’s a very tidy little revolution coming off in one of those little republics soon.” McGrath grinned. “You always were keen on revolutions—anything to be mixed up in a really good row.” “I feel my talents might be appreciated out there. I tell you, Jimmy, I can be jolly useful in a revolution—to one side or the other. It’s better than making an honest living any day.” “I think I’ve heard that sentiment from you before, my son. No, the job isn’t in South America—it’s in England.” “England? Return of hero to his native land after many long years. They can’t dun you for bills after seven years, can they, Jimmy?” “I don’t think so. Well, are you on for hearing more about it?” “I’m on all right. The thing that worries me is why you’re not taking it on yourself.” “I’ll tell you. I’m after gold, Anthony—far up in the interior.” Anthony whistled and looked at him. “You’ve always been after gold, Jimmy, ever since I knew you. It’s your weak spot—your own particular little hobby. You’ve followed up more wild-cat trails than anyone I know.” “And in the end I’ll strike it. You’ll see.” “Well, every one his own hobby. Mine’s rows, yours is gold.” “I’ll tell you the whole story. I suppose you know all about Herzoslovakia?” Anthony looked up sharply. “Herzoslovakia?” he said, with a curious ring in his voice. “Yes. Know anything about it?” There was quite an appreciable pause before Anthony answered. Then he said slowly: “Only what every one knows. It’s one of the Balkan States, isn’t it? Principal rivers, unknown. Principal mountains, also unknown, but fairly numerous. Capital, Ekarest. Population, chiefly brigands. Hobby, assassinating Kings and having Revolutions. Last King, Nicholas IV. Assassinated about seven years ago. Since then it’s been a Republic. Altogether a very likely spot. You might have mentioned before that Herzoslovakia came into it.” “It doesn’t except indirectly.” Anthony gazed at him more in sorrow than in anger. “You ought to do something about this, James,” he said. “Take a correspondence course, or something. If you’d told a story like this in the good old Eastern days, you’d have been hung up by the heels and bastinadoed or something equally unpleasant.” Jimmy pursued his course quite unmoved by these strictures. “Ever heard of Count Stylptitch?”