I laughed. 'Oh, as to that, my nerves are good enough.' I took
down a hunting-knife from a stand on the wall, and did the old
Mashona trick of tossing it and catching it in my lips. That wants a
pretty steady heart.

He watched me with a smile. 'I don't want proof. I may be an ass
on the platform, but I can size up a man. You're no murderer and
you're no fool, and I believe you are speaking the truth. I'm going
to back you up. Now, what can I do?'

'First, I want you to write a letter to your uncle. I've got to get
in touch with the Government people sometime before the 15th of June.'

He pulled his moustache. 'That won't help you. This is Foreign
Office business, and my uncle would have nothing to do with it.
Besides, you'd never convince him. No, I'll go one better. I'll write
to the Permanent Secretary at the Foreign Office. He's my godfather,
and one of the best going. What do you want?'

He sat down at a table and wrote to my dictation. The gist of it
was that if a man called Twisdon (I thought I had better stick to
that name) turned up before June 15th he was to entreat him
kindly. He said Twisdon would prove his bona fides by passing the
word 'Black Stone' and whistling 'Annie Laurie'.

'Good,' said Sir Harry. 'That's the proper style. By the way,
you'll find my godfather--his name's Sir Walter Bullivant--down
at his country cottage for Whitsuntide. It's close to Artinswell on
the Kenner. That's done. Now, what's the next thing?'