“For many years have I been convinced of the infallibility of your judgment,” said Quong Ho. “I shall also never forget,” he added, “that I am merely the clay which you have moulded.” “I’m beginning to think,” cried Baltazar, “that I’m not your friend Dr. Rewsby’s colossal ass after all.” Baltazar was happy. He went about shouldering his way through the amazing war-world, secure in his grip on all that mattered to him in life. His was a name that, once heard, stuck in men’s memory. Gradually it became vaguely familiar to the general public, well known to an expanding circle. His romantic story, at first to his furious indignation, was paragraphed far and wide. The Athenæum, under special rule, reinstated him in his membership. The intransigent policy of _The New Universe_ brought him into personal contact with the High and Mighty at the heads of Ministries. Invitations to speak by all manners of organizations poured in. As a speaker his dominating personality found its supreme expression. He exalted in his newly found strength. The essential man of action had been trammelled for half a century by the robe of the scholar. The Zeppelin bomb had set him naked. Said Pillivant, meeting him in the offices of _The New Universe_: “A year ago you didn’t know there was a war on. I took you for the ruddiest freak I had ever come across. Now you’ve blossomed out into a ruddy swell, bossing everything. I can’t open a newspaper without seeing your name. How the hell have you managed to do it?” “Profiteering,” said Baltazar. “Profiteering?” asked Pillivant, puckering up his fat face in perplexity. “What’s your line?” “Brains,” said Baltazar. He turned away delighted. Well, it came to that. There was no arrogance about it. He was giving everything in his power to the country. Oppressed, at one time, by the sense of physical fitness, and fired by the sudden, urgent demand for man-power, he had, in one of his Gordian-knot cutting moods, marched into a recruiting office and vaunted his brawn and muscle. “I’m fifty,” said he, “but I defy anybody to say I’m not physically equal to any boy of twenty-five.” But they had politely laughed at him and sent him away raging furiously. It was then that he followed the despised counsel of the unimaginative Burtenshaw, K.C., and joined the Special Constabulary and the National Volunteers. “What’s the next thing you’re going to take on?” asked Marcelle. “First, my dear,” said he, “the whole running of this war. Then the administration of the Kingdom of God on Earth.” “What a boy you are!” she laughed. “A damned fine boy,” said Baltazar. * * * * * One fine Sunday in May she came up to town to lunch with him alone, Godfrey being away somewhere or other for the week-end. “My dear,” he cried, excitedly, as soon as she arrived, “I’ve been dying to see you. It’s going to happen.” “What?”