"But he's an Englishman, surely?" Hamel asked. "The Fentolin who
was my father's friend was just a very wealthy Norfolk squire--one
of the best, from all I have heard."

"Miles Fentolin is an Englishman," Kinsley admitted. "It is true,
too, that he comes of a very ancient Norfolk family. It doesn't do,
however, to build too much upon that. From all I can learn of him,
he is a sort of Puck, a professional mischief-maker. I don't
suppose there's anything an outsider could find out which would be
really useful to us, but all the same, if I had the time, I should
certainly go down to Norfolk myself."

The conversation drifted away for a while. Mutual acquaintances
entered, there were several introductions, and it was not until
the two found themselves together in Kinsley's rooms for a few
minutes before parting that they were alone again. Hamel returned
then once more to the subject.

"Reggie," he said, "if you think it would be of the slightest use,
I'll go down to Salthouse to-morrow. I am rather keen on going
there, anyway. I am absolutely fed up with life here already."

"It's just what I want you to do," Kinsley said. "I am afraid
Fentolin is a little too clever for you to get on the right side
of him, but if you could only get an idea as to what his game is
down there, it would be a great help. You see, the fellow can't
have gone into all this sort of thing blindfold. We've lost
several very useful agents abroad and two from New York who've
gone into his pay. There must be a method in it somewhere. If
it really ends with his financial operations--why, all right.