recked not if reality added an inch or two to his circumference.
While he could solve, in fancy, problems that had baffled the acutest
investigators, what matter if his tie-pin got mislaid?

And then came war to deposit romance and adventure upon our doorsteps.
Mr. Jones was agog with excitement.

Espionage, treachery in high places, the hidden hand--Mr. Jones read
about them all and shuddered with unholy joy. Perhaps he, an obscure
cashier--who could tell? Stranger things had happened.

Meanwhile he devoured all the spy literature he could find, for, as he
once remarked to himself, in dealing with such gentry you have to mind
your P's and QUEUX. It was his only joke.

His literary choice dictated by such considerations, Mr. Jones
picked his way delicately across the platforms till he reached his
compartment, into the corner of which he stretched himself luxuriously
and prepared to enjoy his book.

Just before the train started a lady entered carrying a baby
and--greatly to Mr. Jones's annoyance--took the corner seat opposite
him. Being a confirmed bachelor, he had a horror of all babies,
but this child in particular struck him with disfavour; seldom, he
thought, had he seen such a peevish discontented expression on any
human face.

Close on the lady's heels followed a withered old man of the
traditional professorial type, who seated himself at the other end of
the compartment.