showed a curious distaste for dealing with minors; but anyone of
maturer years could simply come round to the office and help
himself.

Ashe threw the paper down wearily. He had known all along that it
was no good. Romance was dead and the unexpected no longer
happened. He picked up his pen and began to write "The Adventure
of the Wand of Death."



CHAPTER II

In a bedroom on the fourth floor of the Hotel Guelph in
Piccadilly, the Honorable Frederick Threepwood sat in bed, with
his knees drawn up to his chin, and glared at the day with the
glare of mental anguish. He had very little mind, but what he had
was suffering.

He had just remembered. It is like that in this life. You wake
up, feeling as fit as a fiddle; you look at the window and see
the sun, and thank Heaven for a fine day; you begin to plan a
perfectly corking luncheon party with some of the chappies you
met last night at the National Sporting Club; and then--you
remember.

"Oh, dash it!" said the Honorable Freddie. And after a moment's
pause: "And I was feeling so dashed happy!"

For the space of some minutes he remained plunged in sad