“I am what you see,” he replied. “I am one of those unfortunate human beings who, by reason of their physical misfortunes, are cut off from the world of actual life. I have been compelled to seek distraction in strange quarters. I have wealth--great wealth I suppose I should say; an inordinate curiosity, a talent for intrigue. As to the direction in which I carry on my intrigues, or even as to the direct interests which I study, that is a matter, Mr. Dunster, upon which I shall not gratify your curiosity nor anybody else’s. But, you see, I am admitting freely that it does interest me to interfere in great affairs.” “But how on earth did you get to know about me,” Mr. Dunster asked, “and my errand? You couldn’t possibly have got me here in an ordinary way. It was an entire fluke.” “There, you speak with some show of reason. I have a nephew whom you have met, who is devoted to me.” “Mr. Gerald Fentolin,” Mr. Dunster remarked drily. “Precisely,” Mr. Fentolin declared. “Well, I admit frankly the truth of what you say. Your--shall we say capture, was by way of being a gigantic fluke. My nephew’s instructions simply were to travel down by the train to Harwich with you, to endeavour to make your acquaintance, to follow you on to your destination, and, if any chance to do so occurred, to relieve you of your pocket-book. That, however, I never ventured to expect. What really happened was, as you have yourself suggested, almost in the nature of a miracle. My nephew showed himself to be possessed of gifts which were a revelation to me. He not only succeeded in travelling with you by the special train, but after its wreck he was clever enough to bring you here, instead of delivering you over to the mercies of a village doctor. I really cannot find words to express my appreciation of my nephew’s conduct.” “I could,” Mr. Dunster muttered, “very easily!” Mr. Fentolin sighed gently. “Perhaps our points of view might differ.” “We have spent a very agreeable few minutes in explanations,” Mr. Dunster continued. “Would it be asking too much if I now suggest that we remove the buttons from our foils?” “Why not?” Mr. Fentolin assented smoothly. “Your first question to yourself, under these circumstances, would naturally be: ‘What does Mr. Fentolin want with me?’ I will answer that question for you. All that I ask--it is really very little--is the word agreed upon.” Mr. Dunster held his cigar a little way off and looked steadfastly at his host for a moment. “So you have interpreted my cipher?” Mr. Fentolin spread out the palms of his hands in a delicate gesture. “My dear Mr. Dunster,” he said, “one of the simplest, I think, that was ever strung together. I am somewhat of an authority upon ciphers.” “I gather,” Mr. Dunster went on, although his cigar was burning itself out, “that you have broken the seal of my dispatches?” Mr. Fentolin closed his eyes as though he had heard a discord.