the dog Trelawney after the seagulls.  Everything was so clear that we could see the little rare island that keeps itself to itself on our horizon.  I don’t know its name; they say it bears a town and a post-office and a parson, but I don’t think this is true.  I think that island is an intermittent dream of ours.  When you get beyond the village, the cliff leaves off indulging in coves and harbours and such frivolities, and decides to look upon itself seriously as a giant wall against a giant sea.  Only it occasionally defeats its own object, because it stands up so straight that the sea finds it easier to knock down.  On a point of cliff there was a Lorelei seagull standing, with its eye on Trelawney.  It had pale eyes, and a red drop on its beak.  And Trelawney, being a man-dog, did what the seagull meant him to do.  He ran for it, he ran too far, and fell over the edge.  Well, this is not a tragic incident, only an exciting one.  Trelawney fell on to a ledge about ten foot below the top of the cliff, and sat there in perfect safety, shrieking for help.  My Friend said:  “This is a case of ’Bite my teeth and Go.’” It is a saying in this family, dating from the Spartan childhood of my Friend, that everything is possible to one who bites his teeth and goes.  The less you like it, the harder you bite your teeth, and it certainly helps.  My Friend said:  “If we never meet again, remember to catch and hang that seagull for wilful murder.  It would look rather nice stuffed in the hall.”  The cliff overhangs rather just there, and when he got over the edge, not being a fly or used to walking upside down, he missed his footing.  We heard a yelp from Trelawney.  But the seagull’s conscience is still free of murder, my Friend only fell on to Trelawney’s ledge.  So it was all right, and we ate our hard-boiled eggs on the scene of the incident.

“I remember—­” said Mr. Russell.

“That letter,” said Anonyma, “ought to help us a bit.”

She was quite bright, because Kew had conveyed to her the hope that the plot for the rescue of the Family was doing well.  Cousin Gustus also, with no traces of a headache except a faint smell of Eau-de-Cologne, had come down hopefully to breakfast.

“Obviously the North coast of Cornwall,” said Mrs. Russell.  “The village might be Boscastle, and the island is surely Lundy....  Such an intensely funny name, Lundy, isn’t it?  Ha-ha!  For some reason it amuses me more and more every time I hear it.  It reminds me of learning geography with the taste of ink and bitten pen in my mouth.  I used to catch my sister’s eye—­just as I’m catching yours now—­and laugh ever so much, over Lundy.  I used to be a terror to my governesses.”

“I’m very much afraid that I can’t spare much more time for the motor tour,” said Mr. Russell, and Anonyma was so anxious for the first signs of rescue that she actually let him speak.  “Business in London.  I dare say I could get you to Cornwall within the next few days, but some time this week I must get back to town.”