Neither of us looked at each other; but I could see his hand deliberately making bread pills. “That's a nice thing of yours,” I pursued, “that panel. The foreground is a little clayey, perhaps, but the lagoon is excellent.” “You ought to know,” said he. “Yes,” returned I, “I'm rather a good judge of--that panel.” There was a considerable pause. “You know a man by the name of Bellairs, don't you?” he resumed. “Ah!” cried I, “you have heard from Doctor Urquart?” “This very morning,” he replied. “Well, there is no hurry about Bellairs,” said I. “It's rather a long story and rather a silly one. But I think we have a good deal to tell each other, and perhaps we had better wait till we are more alone.” “I think so,” said he. “Not that any of these fellows know English, but we'll be more comfortable over at my place. Your health, Dodd.” And we took wine together across the table. Thus had this singular introduction passed unperceived in the midst of more than thirty persons, art students, ladies in dressing-gowns and covered with rice powder, six foot of Siron whisking dishes over our head, and his noisy sons clattering in and out with fresh relays. “One question more,” said I: “Did you recognise my voice?” “Your voice?” he repeated. “How should I? I had never heard it--we have never met.” “And yet, we have been in conversation before now,” said I, “and I asked you a question which you never answered, and which I have since had many thousand better reasons for putting to myself.” He turned suddenly white. “Good God!” he cried, “are you the man in the telephone?” I nodded. “Well, well!” said he. “It would take a good deal of magnanimity to forgive you that. What nights I have passed! That little whisper has whistled in my ear ever since, like the wind in a keyhole. Who could it be? What could it mean? I suppose I have had more real, solid misery out of that ...” He paused, and looked troubled. “Though I had more to bother me, or ought to have,” he added, and slowly emptied his glass. “It seems we were born to drive each other crazy with conundrums,” said I. “I have often thought my head would split.” Carthew burst into his foolish laugh. “And yet neither you nor I had the worst of the puzzle,” he cried. “There were others deeper in.” “And who were they?” I asked. “The underwriters,” said he. “Why, to be sure!” cried I, “I never thought of that. What could they make of it?” “Nothing,” replied Carthew. “It couldn't be explained. They were a crowd of small dealers at Lloyd's who took it up in syndicate; one of them has a carriage now; and people say he is a deuce of a deep fellow, and has the makings of a great financier. Another furnished a small villa on the profits. But they're all hopelessly muddled; and when they meet each other, they don't know where to look, like the Augurs.”