“There are a few minor points,” Mr. Fentolin murmured, “such as his religious convictions and his size in boots, which I could not swear about, but so far as regards his name and his occupation, I think I can gratify your curiosity. He is a Mr. John P. Dunster, and he appears to be the representative of an American firm of bankers, on his way to Germany to conclude a loan.” “God bless my soul!” Lord Saxthorpe exclaimed wonderingly. “The fellow is actually here under this roof! But who brought him? How did he find his way?” “Better ask Gerald,” Mr. Fentolin replied. “He is the abductor. It seems that they both missed the train from Liverpool Street, and Mr. Dunster invited Gerald to travel down in his special train. Very kind of him, but might have been very unlucky for Gerald. As you know, they got smashed up at Wymondham, and Gerald, feeling in a way responsible for him, brought him on here; quite properly, I think. Sarson has been looking after him, but I am afraid he has slight concussion of the brain.” “I shall remember this all my life,” Lord Saxthorpe declared solemnly, “as one of the most singular coincidences which has ever come within my personal knowledge. Perhaps after lunch, Mr. Fentolin, you will let some of your people telephone to the police-station at Wells? There really is an important enquiry respecting this man. I should not be surprised,” he added, dropping his voice a little for the benefit of the servants, “to find that Scotland Yard needed him on their own account.” “In that case,” Mr. Fentolin remarked, “he is quite safe, for Sarson tells me there is no chance of his being able to travel, at any rate for twenty-four hours.” Lady Saxthorpe shivered. “Aren’t you afraid to have him in the house?” she asked, “a man who is really and actually wanted by Scotland Yard? When one considers that nothing ever happens here except an occasional shipwreck in the winter and a flower-show in the summer, it does sound positively thrilling. I wonder what he has done.” They discussed the subject of Mr. Dunster’s possible iniquities. Meanwhile, a young man carrying his hat in his hand had slipped in past the servants and was leaning over Mr. Fentolin’s chair. He laid two or three sheets of paper upon the table and waited while his employer glanced them through and dismissed him with a little nod. “My wireless has been busy this morning,” Mr. Fentolin remarked. “We seem to have collected about forty messages from different battleships and cruisers. There must be a whole squadron barely thirty miles out.” “You don’t really think,” Lady Saxthorpe asked, “that there is any fear of war, do you, Mr. Fentolin?” He answered her with a certain amount of gravity. “Who can tell? The papers this morning were bad. This conference at The Hague is still unexplained. France’s attitude in the matter is especially mysterious.”