brought a cultivated taste to the appreciation of a now, alas!
historical wine, under whose influence he expanded and told us of the
genesis and the making of "The Diamond Gate."

Now it is a very odd coincidence, one however which had little, if
anything, to do with the curious entanglement of my friend's affairs
into which I was afterwards drawn, but an odd coincidence all the same,
that on passing from the dining room with Adrian to join Barbara in the
drawing room, I found among the last post letters lying on the hall
table one which, with a thrill of pleasure, I held up before Adrian's
eyes.

"Do you recognise the handwriting?"

"Good Lord!" cried he. "It's from Jaffery Chayne. And"--he scanned the
stamp and postmark--"from Cettinje. What the deuce is he doing there?"

"Let us see!" said I.

I opened the letter and scanned it through; then I read it aloud.

"Dear Hilary,

"A line to let you know that I'm coming back soon. I haven't quite
finished my job--"

"What was his job?"

"Heaven knows," I replied. "The last time I heard from him he was
cruising about the Sargasso Sea."