Jack Osborne is a man I rather like, in spite of the fact that his sole
aim in life is to kill things. When he isn't shooting "hippos" and
"rhinos" and bears and lions in out-of-the-way parts of the world, he is
usually plastering pheasants in the home covers, or tramping the fields
and moors where partridges and grouse abound.

"Had a good time?" I asked some moments later.

"Ripping," he answered, "quite ripping," and he went on to tell me the
number of beasts he had slain, particulars about them and the way he had
outwitted them. I managed to listen for ten minutes or so without
yawning, and then suddenly he remarked:

"I met a man on board ship, on the way home, who said he knew
you--feller named Gastrell. Said he met you in Geneva, and liked you
like anything. Struck me as rather a rum sort--what? Couldn't quite make
him out. Who is he and what is he? What's he do?"

"I know as little about him as you do," I answered. "I know him only
slightly--we were staying at the same hotel in Geneva. I heard Lord
Easterton, who was in here half an hour ago, saying he had let his house
in Cumberland Place to a man named Gastrell--Hugesson Gastrell. I wonder
if it is the man I met in Geneva and that you say you met on board ship.
When did you land?"

"Yesterday, at Southampton. Came by the _Masonic_ from Capetown."

"And where did Gastrell come from?"

"Capetown too. I didn't notice him until we were near the end of the