putting to an entire stranger embarrassing questions as to his possession of the Peace of God, so had Sypher no scruple in approaching any foreigner of distinguished mien in an hotel lounge and converting him to the religion of Sypher’s Cure.  In most cosmopolitan resorts his burly figure and pink face were well known.  Newspapers paragraphed his arrival and departure.  People pointed him out to one another in promenades.  Distinguished personages to whom he had casually introduced himself introduced him to other distinguished personages.  When he threw off the apostle and became the man, his simple directness and charm of manner caused him to be accepted pleasurably for his own sake.  Had he chosen to take advantage of his opportunities he might have consorted with very grand folks indeed; at a price, be it said, which his pride refused to pay.  But he had no social ambitions.  The grand folks therefore respected him and held out a cordial hand as he passed by.  That very train was carrying to Switzerland a Russian Grand Duke who had greeted him with a large smile and a “Ah! ce bon Sypher!” on the platform of the Gare de Lyon, and had presented him as the Friend of Humanity to the Grand Duchess.

To Sypher, lying on his back and dreaming of the days when through him the forced marches of weary troops would become light-hearted strolls along the road, the jealously guarded portals of the War Offices of the world presented no terrors.  He ticked off the countries in his mind until he came to Turkey.  Whom did he know in Turkey?  He had once given a certain Musurus Bey a light for his cigarette in the atrium of the Casino at Monte Carlo; but that could scarcely be called an introduction.  No matter; his star was now in the ascendant.  The Lord would surely provide a Turk for him in Geneva.  He shifted his position in the berth, and a twinge of pain passed through his foot, hurting horribly.

When he rose to dress, he found some difficulty in putting on his boot.  On leaving the train at Geneva he could scarcely walk.  In his room at the hotel he anointed his heel again with the Cure, and, glad to rest, sat by the window looking at the blue lake and Mont Blanc white-capped in the quivering distance, his leg supported on a chair.  Then his traveler, who had arranged to meet him by appointment, was shown into the room.  They were to lunch together.  To ease his foot Sypher put on an evening slipper and hobbled downstairs.

The traveler told a depressing tale.  Jebusa Jones had got in everywhere and was underselling the Cure.  A new German skin remedy had insidiously crept on to the market.  Wholesale houses wanted impossible discounts, and retail chemists could not be inveigled into placing any but the most insignificant orders.  He gave dismaying details, terribly anxious all the while lest his chief should attribute to his incompetence the growing unpopularity of the Cure.  But to his amazement Sypher listened smilingly to his story of disaster, and ordered a bottle of champagne.