card, which he handed to me.

"That is my name," he said briefly.

I took the hint, and returned the compliment in kind. On his
card I read:

MR CHARLES DENIS ST AUBYN,
Grosvenor Square, London. St Aubyn's Court, Shrewsbury.

And mine bore the legend:

MR FRANK ROY,
Merchants' Club, W. C.

"Now that we are no longer unknown to each other," said I, "may I
ask, without committing an indiscretion, if I can use the free time
at my disposal in your interests?"

"You are very good, Mr Roy. It is the characteristic of your nation
to be kind-hearted and readily interested in strangers." Was this
sarcastic? I wondered. Perhaps; but he said it quite courteously.
"I am a solitary and unfortunate man. Before I accept your kindness,
will you permit me to tell you the nature of the journey I am making?
It is a strange one."

He spoke huskily, and with evident effort. I assented eagerly.

The following, recounted in broken sentences, and with many abrupt
pauses, is the story to which I listened: