Both men laughed.  In the old days, Edgar Hamilton had been essentially a ladies’ man; but, since they had parted one evening on the station-platform at Oxford, Hamilton had gone up to town and completely out of the life of Walter Murie.  They had not met until the previous evening, when Walter, having dined at the Devonshire—­that comfortable old-world club in St. James’s Street which was the famous Crockford’s gaming-house in the days of the dandies—­he had met his old friend in the strangers’ smoking-room, the guest of a City stockbroker who was entertaining a party.  A hurried greeting of surprise, and an invitation to call in at the Temple resulted in that meeting on that grey afternoon.

Six years had gone since they had parted; and, judging from Edgar’s exterior, he had been pretty prosperous.

Walter was laughing and commenting upon it when his friend, removing his cigar from his lips, said, “My dear fellow, my success has been entirely due to one incident which is quite romantic.  In fact, if anybody wrote it in a book people would declare it to be fiction.”

“That’s interesting!  Tell me all about it.  My own life has been humdrum enough in all conscience.  As a budding politician, I have to browse upon blue-books and chew statistics.”

“And mine has been one of travel, adventure, and considerable excitement,” declared Hamilton.  “Six months after I left Oxford I found myself out in Transcaucasia as a newspaper correspondent.  As you know, I often wrote articles for some of the more precious papers when at college.  Well, one of them sent me out to travel through the disturbed Kurdish districts.  I had a tough time from the start.  I was out with a Cossack party in Thai Aras valley, east of Erivan, for six months, and wrote lots of articles which created a good deal of sensation here in England.  You may have seen them, but they were anonymous.  The life of excitement, sometimes fighting and at others in ambush in the mountains, suited me admirably, for I’m a born adventurer, I believe.  One day, however, a strange thing happened.  I was riding along alone through one of the mountain passes towards the Caspian when I discovered three wild, fierce-looking Kurds maltreating a girl, believing her to be a Russian.  I called upon them to release her, for she was little more than a child; and, as they did not, I shot two of the men.  The third shot and plugged me rather badly in the leg; but I had the satisfaction that my shots attracted my Cossack companions, who, coming quickly on the spot, killed all three of the girl’s assailants, and released her.”

“By Jove!” laughed Murie.  “Was she pretty?”