CHAPTER I.

[_Colonel Annesley's Story_]


The crossing from Dover to Calais had been rough; a drizzling rain
fell all the time, and most of the passengers had remained below.
Strange to say, they were few enough, as I saw on landing. It was a
Sunday in late July, and there ought to have been a strong stream
setting towards Central Europe. I hardly expected to find much room in
the train; not that it mattered, for my place was booked through in
the Lucerne sleeping-car of the Engadine express.

Room! When I reached the siding where this train de luxe was drawn up,
I saw that I was not merely the first but the only passenger. Five
sleeping-cars and a dining-car attached, with the full staff,
attendants, chef, waiters--all lay there waiting for me, and me
alone.

"Not very busy?" I said, with a laugh to the conductor.

"_Parbleu_," replied the man, polyglot and cosmopolitan, like most of