of the moderation of its subscription and the excellence of its
cuisine.

The evening was calm, and the sounds from the street below seemed
to float up lazily to the little group in the open window, as the
smoke of their pipes and cigars floated up lazily to the ceiling
above. The gentle hum of the traffic made a pleasant accompaniment
to their conversation, as the holding down of a soft pedal fills
in and supports dreamy organ music. But for the six young men in
the bow window the room was untenanted, save for a waiter who had
just brought some fresh drinks, and who was now clearing away empty
glasses from an adjoining table.

The talk had turned on foreign travel, and more than one member had
related experiences which he had undergone while abroad. Merriman
was tired and had been rather silent, but it was suddenly borne in
on him that it was his duty, as one of the hosts of the evening, to
contribute somewhat more fully towards the conversation. He
determined to relate his little adventure at the sawmill of the
Pit-Prop Syndicate. He therefore lit a fresh cigar, and began to
speak.

"Any of you fellows know the country just south of Bordeaux?" he
asked, and, as no one responded, he went on: "I know it a bit, for
I have to go through it every year on my trip round the wine
exporters. This year a rather queer thing happened when I was
about half an hour's run from Bordeaux; absolutely a trivial thing
and of no importance, you understand, but it puzzled me. Maybe
some of you could throw some light on it?"