'I knew he had knocked about the East, but I didn't know he
was that kind of swell. Sandy's not the chap to buck about himself.'

'He wouldn't,' said Sir Walter. 'He had always a more than
Oriental reticence. I've got another colleague for you, if you like
him.'

He looked at his watch. 'You can get to the Savoy Grill Room in
five minutes in a taxi-cab. Go in from the Strand, turn to your left,
and you will see in the alcove on the right-hand side a table with
one large American gentleman sitting at it. They know him there,
so he will have the table to himself. I want you to go and sit down
beside him. Say you come from me. His name is Mr John
Scantlebury Blenkiron, now a citizen of Boston, Mass., but born
and raised in Indiana. Put this envelope in your pocket, but don't
read its contents till you have talked to him. I want you to form
your own opinion about Mr Blenkiron.'

I went out of the Foreign Office in as muddled a frame of mind
as any diplomatist who ever left its portals. I was most desperately
depressed. To begin with, I was in a complete funk. I had always
thought I was about as brave as the average man, but there's
courage and courage, and mine was certainly not the impassive
kind. Stick me down in a trench and I could stand being shot at as
well as most people, and my blood could get hot if it were given a
chance. But I think I had too much imagination. I couldn't shake
off the beastly forecasts that kept crowding my mind.

In about a fortnight, I calculated, I would be dead. Shot as a spy