- a rotten sort of ending! At the moment I was quite safe, looking
for a taxi in the middle of Whitehall, but the sweat broke on my
forehead. I felt as I had felt in my adventure before the war. But
this was far worse, for it was more cold-blooded and premeditated,
and I didn't seem to have even a sporting chance. I watched the
figures in khaki passing on the pavement, and thought what a nice
safe prospect they had compared to mine. Yes, even if next week
they were in the Hohenzollern, or the Hairpin trench at the
Quarries, or that ugly angle at Hooge. I wondered why I had not
been happier that morning before I got that infernal wire. Suddenly
all the trivialities of English life seemed to me inexpressibly dear
and terribly far away. I was very angry with Bullivant, till I
remembered how fair he had been. My fate was my own choosing.

When I was hunting the Black Stone the interest of the problem
had helped to keep me going. But now I could see no problem. My
mind had nothing to work on but three words of gibberish on a
sheet of paper and a mystery of which Sir Walter had been
convinced, but to which he couldn't give a name. It was like the story
I had read of Saint Teresa setting off at the age of ten with her small
brother to convert the Moors. I sat huddled in the taxi with my
chin on my breast, wishing that I had lost a leg at Loos and been
comfortably tucked away for the rest of the war.

Sure enough I found my man in the Grill Room. There he was,
feeding solemnly, with a napkin tucked under his chin. He was a
big fellow with a fat, sallow, clean-shaven face. I disregarded the
hovering waiter and pulled up a chair beside the American at the
little table. He turned on me a pair of full sleepy eyes, like a
ruminating ox.