brightly with a style which was at once easy and informative. It
told of adventures in the marshes behind St. Sebastian Bay and
journeys up the Guarez Celman river, of nights spent in primeval
forests and ended in a geological survey, wherein the commercial
value of syenite, porphyry, trachite and dialite were severally
canvassed.

The article was signed "G. G." It is said of T. X. that his
greatest virtue was his curiosity. He had at the tip of his
fingers the names of all the big explorers and author-travellers,
and for some reason he could not place "G. G." to his
satisfaction, in fact he had an absurd desire to interpret the
initials into "George Grossmith." His inability to identify the
writer irritated him, and his first act on reaching his office was
to telephone to one of the literary editors of the Times whom he
knew.

"Not my department," was the chilly reply, "and besides we never
give away the names of our contributors. Speaking as a person
outside the office I should say that "G. G." was 'George
Gathercole' the explorer you know, the fellow who had an arm
chewed off by a lion or something."

"George Gathercole!" repeated T. X. "What an ass I am."

"Yes," said the voice at the other end the wire, and he had rung
off before T. X. could think of something suitable to say.

Having elucidated this little side-line of mystery, the matter
passed from the young Commissioner's mind. It happened that