"I believe you are a pipe-smoker," said our courteous host to Harley,
"and if this is so, I know that you will prefer your favourite mixture
to any cigar that ever was rolled."

"Many thanks," said Harley, to whom no more delicate compliment could
have been paid.

He was indeed an inveterate pipe-smoker, and only rarely did he truly
enjoy a cigar, however choice its pedigree. With a sigh of content he
began to fill his briar. His mood was more restful, and covertly I
watched him studying our host. The night remained very warm and one of
the two windows of the dining room, which was the most homely apartment
in Cray's Folly, was wide open, offering a prospect of sweeping velvet
lawns touched by the magic of the moonlight.

A short silence fell, to be broken by the Colonel.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I trust you do not regret your fishing
excursion?"

"I could cheerfully pass the rest of my days in such ideal
surroundings," replied Paul Harley.

I nodded in agreement.

"But," continued my friend, speaking very deliberately, "I have to
remember that I am here upon business, and that my professional
reputation is perhaps at stake."