A King's messenger has always been to me a fascinating figure. In fiction he is resourceful, daring, ubiquitous. He shows his silver staff, with its running greyhound, which he inherits from the days of Henry VIII, and all men must bow before it. To speed him on his way, railroad-carriages are emptied, special trains are thrown together, steamers cast off only when he arrives. So when I found for days I was to travel in company with a King's messenger I foresaw a journey of infinite ease and comfort. It would be a royal progress. His ever-present, but invisible, staff of secret agents would protect me. I would share his special trains, his suites of deck cabins. But it was not like that. My King's messenger was not that kind of a King's messenger. Indeed, when he left the Levant, had it not been for the man from Cook's, he would never have found his way from the hotel to the right railroad-station. And that he now is safely in London is because at Patras we rescued him from a boatman who had placed him unresisting on a steamer for Australia. [Illustration: "Very interestin'. You ought to frame it."] I pointed him out to the detective. He recalled him as the gentleman who had blocked the exit gate at the railroad-station. I suggested that that was probably because he had lost his ticket. "Lost his ticket! A King's messenger!" The detective was indignant with me. "Impossible, sir!" I told him the story of the drunken bandsman returning from the picnic. "You can't have lost your ticket," said the guard. "Can't I?" exclaimed the bandsman triumphantly. "I've lost the bass-drum!" Scotland Yard reproved the K. M. with deference, but severely. "You should have told us at once, sir," he said, "that you were carrying despatches. If you'd only shown your credentials, we'd had you safe on board two hours ago." The King's messenger blushed guiltily. He looked as though he wanted to run. "Don't tell me," I cried, "you've lost your credentials, too!" "Don't be an ass!" cried the K. M. "I've mislaid them, that's all." The detective glared at him as though he would enjoy leading him to the moat in the tower. "You've been robbed!" he gasped. "Have you looked," I asked, "in the unlikely places?" "I always look there first," explained the K. M. "Look again," commanded the detective. Unhappily, the K. M. put his hand in his inside coat pocket and, with intense surprise, as though he had performed a conjuring trick, produced a paper that creaked and crinkled. "That's it!" he cried. "You come with me," commanded Scotland Yard, "before you lose it again."