bear when you've got the sight of your rifle on him. I won't think
about risks till I'm up to my neck in them and don't see the road
out.'

I scribbled my address on a piece of paper and handed it to the
stout philosopher. 'Come to dinner tonight at eight,' I said.

'I thank you, Major. A little fish, please, plain-boiled, and some
hot milk. You will forgive me if I borrow your couch after the
meal and spend the evening on my back. That is the advice of my
noo doctor.'

I got a taxi and drove to my club. On the way I opened the
envelope Sir Walter had given me. It contained a number of jottings,
the dossier of Mr Blenkiron. He had done wonders for the Allies in
the States. He had nosed out the Dumba plot, and had been instrumental
in getting the portfolio of Dr Albert. Von Papen's spies had
tried to murder him, after he had defeated an attempt to blow up
one of the big gun factories. Sir Walter had written at the end: 'The
best man we ever had. Better than Scudder. He would go through
hell with a box of bismuth tablets and a pack of Patience cards.'

I went into the little back smoking-room, borrowed an atlas
from the library, poked up the fire, and sat down to think. Mr
Blenkiron had given me the fillip I needed. My mind was beginning
to work now, and was running wide over the whole business. Not
that I hoped to find anything by my cogitations. It wasn't thinking
in an arm-chair that would solve the mystery. But I was getting a
sort of grip on a plan of operations. And to my relief I had stopped
thinking about the risks. Blenkiron had shamed me out of that. If a