Three men who had gained great fame and honour throughout the world met
unexpectedly in front of the bookstall at Paddington Station. Like most
of the great ones of the earth they were personally acquainted, and they
exchanged surprised greetings.

Sir Angus McCurdie, the eminent physicist, scowled at the two others
beneath his heavy black eyebrows.

"I'm going to a God-forsaken place in Cornwall called Trehenna," said
he.

"That's odd; so am I," croaked Professor Biggleswade. He was a little,
untidy man with round spectacles, a fringe of greyish beard and a weak,
rasping voice, and he knew more of Assyriology than any man, living or
dead. A flippant pupil once remarked that the Professor's face was
furnished with a Babylonic cuneiform in lieu of features.

"People called Deverill, at Foulis Castle?" asked Sir Angus.

"Yes," replied Professor Biggleswade.

"How curious! I am going to the Deverills, too," said the third man.

This man was the Right Honourable Viscount Doyne, the renowned Empire
Builder and Administrator, around whose solitary and remote life popular
imagination had woven many legends. He looked at the world through tired
grey eyes, and the heavy, drooping, blonde moustache seemed tired, too,