LITMIR.BIZ

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to hear Lord Lamancha. We think rather well of that young man in America. How do you rate him here?”

      Mr Claybody, as a habitant of the great world, replied, “Very high in his own line. He’s the old-fashioned type of British statesman, and people trust him. The trouble about him and his kind is that they’re a little too far removed from the ordinary man—they’ve been too cosseted and set on a pedestal all their lives. They don’t know how to handle democracy. You can’t imagine Lamancha rubbing shoulders with Tom, Dick and Harry.”

      “Oh, come!” Sir Archie broke in. “In the war he started as a captain in a yeomanry regiment, and he commanded a pretty rough Australian push in Palestine. His men fairly swore by him.”

      “I daresay,” said the other coldly. “The war doesn’t count for my argument, and Australians are not quite what I mean.”

      The butler, who was offering liqueurs, was seen to speak confidentially to Junius, who looked towards his father, made as if to speak, and thought better of it. The elder Mr Bandicott was once more holding the table.

      “My archaeological studies,” he said, “and my son’s devotion to sport are apt to circumscribe the interest of my visits to this country. I do not spend more than a couple of days in London, and when I am there the place is empty. Sometimes I regret that I have not attempted to see more of English society in recent years, for there are many figures in it I would like to meet. There are some acquaintances, too, that I should be delighted to revive. Do you know Sir Edward Leithen, Mr Claybody? He was recently, I think the British Attorney General.”

      Mr Claybody nodded. “I know him very well. We have just briefed him in a big case.”

      “Sir Edward Leithen visited us two years ago as the guest of our Bar Association. His address was one of the most remarkable I have ever listened to. It was on John Marshall—the finest tribute ever paid to that great man, and one which I venture to say no American could have equalled. I had very little talk with him, but what I had impressed me profoundly with the breadth of his outlook and the powers of his mind. Yes, I should like to meet Sir Edward Leithen again.”

      The company had risen and were moving towards the drawing-room.

      “Now I wonder,” Mr Claybody was saying, “I heard that Leithen was somewhere in Scotland. I wonder if I could get him up for a few days to Haripol. Then I could bring him over here.”

      An awful joy fell upon Sir Archie’s soul. He realised anew the unplumbed preposterousness of life.

      Ere they reached the drawing-room Junius took Agatha aside.

      “Look here, Miss Agatha, I want you to help me. The gillies have been a little too active. They’ve gathered in some wretched hobo they found looking at the river, and they’ve annexed a journalist who stuck his nose inside the gates. It’s the journalist that’s worrying me. From his card he seems to be rather a swell in his way—represents the Monitor and writes for my father’s New York paper. He gave the gillies a fine race for their money, and now he’s sitting cursing in the garage and vowing every kind of revenge. It won’t do to antagonise the Press, so we’d better let him out and grovel to him, if he wants apologies…The fact is, we’re not in a very strong position, fending off the newspapers from Harald Blacktooth because of this ridiculous John Macnab. If you could let the fellow out it would be casting oil upon troubled waters. You could smooth him down far better than me.”

      “But what about the other?” A hobo, you say! That’s a tramp, isn’t it?”

      “Oh, tell Angus to let him out too. Here are the keys of both garages. I don’t want to turn this place into a lock-up. Angus won’t be pleased, but we have to keep a sharp watch for John Macnab to-morrow, and it’s bad tactics in a campaign to cumber yourself with prisoners.”

      The two threaded mysterious passages and came out into a moonlit stable-yard. Junius handed the girl a great electric torch. “Tell the fellow we eat dirt for our servants’ officiousness. Offer him supper, and—I tell you what—ask him to lunch the day after to-morrow. No, that’s Muirtown day. Find out his address and we’ll write to him and give him first chop at the Viking. Blame it all on the gillies.”

      Agatha unlocked the door of the big garage and to her surprise found it brilliantly lit with electric light. Mr Crossby was sitting in the driver’s seat of a large motor-car, smoking a pipe and composing a story for his paper. At the sight of Agatha he descended hastily.

      “We’re so sorry,” said the girl. “It’s all been a stupid mistake. But, you know, you shouldn’t have run away. Mr Bandicott had to make rules to keep off poachers, and you ought to have stopped and explained who you were.”

      To this charming lady in the grass-green gown Mr Crossby’s manner was debonair and reassuring.

      “No apology is needed. It wasn’t in the least the gillies’ blame. I wanted some exercise, and I had my fun with them. One of the young ones has a very pretty turn of speed. But I oughtn’t to have done it—I quite see that—with everybody here on edge about this John Macnab. Have I your permission to go?”

      “Indeed you have. Mr Bandicott asked me to apologise most humbly. You’re quite free unless—unless you’d like to have supper before you go.”

      Mr Crossby excused himself, and did not stay upon the order of his going. He knew nothing of the fate of his colleague, and hoped that he might pick up news from Benjie in the neighbourhood of the Wood of Larrigmore.

      The other garage stood retired in the lee of a clump of pines—a rude, old-fashioned place, which generally housed the station lorry. Agatha, rather than face the disappointed Angus, decided to complete the task of jail-delivery herself. She had trouble with the lock, and when the door opened she looked into a pit of darkness scarcely lightened by the outer glow of moonshine. She flashed the torch into the interior and saw, seated on a stack of petrol tins, the figure of the tramp.

      Leithen, who had been wondering how he was to find a bed in that stony place, beheld the apparition with amazement. He guessed that it was one of the Miss Radens, for he knew that they were dining at Strathlarrig. As he stood sheepishly before her his wits suffered a dislocation which drove out of his head the remembrance of the part he had assumed.

      “Mr Bandicott sent me to tell you that you can go away,” the girl said.

      “Thank you very much,” said Leithen in his ordinary voice.

      Now in the scramble up the river bank and in the rough handling of Angus his garments had become disarranged, and his watch had swung out of his pocket. In adjusting it in the garage he had put it back in its normal place, so that the chain showed on Sime’s ancient waistcoat. From it depended one of those squat little gold shields which are the badge of athletic prowess at a famous school. As he stood in the light of her torch Agatha noted this shield, and knew what it signified. Also his tone when he spoke had startled her.

      “Oh,” she cried, “you were at Eton?”

      Leithen was for a moment nonplussed. He thought of a dozen lies, and then decided on qualified truth.

      “Yes,” he murmured shamefacedly. “Long ago I was at Eton.”

      The girl flushed with embarrassed sympathy.

      “What—what brought you to this?” she murmured.

      “Folly,” said Leithen, recovering himself. “Drink and suchlike. I have had a lot of bad luck but I’ve mostly myself to blame.”

      “You’re only a tramp now?” Angels might have envied the melting sadness of her voice.

      “At present. Sometimes I get a job, but I can’t hold it down.” Leithen was warming to his work, and his tones were a subtle study in dilapidated gentility.

      “Can’t anything be done?” Agatha asked, twining her pretty hands.

      “Nothing,” was the dismal answer. “I’m past helping. Let me go, please, and forget you ever saw me.”

      “But

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