“Gentlemen, the Honorary Member of the Senga Mess—­Sir Chichester Splay.”

The toast was drunk with enthusiasm by all but Hillyard, who sat staring about him and wondering what in the world the Mecaenas of the First Nights had in common with these youthful administrators far-flung to the Equator.

“You don’t drink, Martin,” cried Luttrell.  A Socialist at a Public Dinner who refused to honour the Royal Toast could only have scandalised the chairman by a few degrees more than Hillyard’s indifference did now.

“I beg your pardon,” said Hillyard with humility.  “I repair my error now.  It was due to amazement.”

“Amazement!” Colin Rayne repeated, as Hillyard drained his glass.

“Yes.  For I know the man.”

There was the silence that follows some stupendous happening; eyes were riveted upon Hillyard in admiration; and then the silence burst.

“He knows him!”

“It’s incredible!”

“Actually knows him!”

And suddenly above the din Blacker’s voice rose warningly.

“Don’t let’s lose our heads!  That’s the great thing!  Let us keep as calm as we can and think out our questions very carefully lest the Heaven-sent Bearer of Great Tidings should depart without revealing all he knows.”

Chairs were hitched a little closer about Hillyard.  The care which had brooded in that room was quite dispelled.

“Have some more port, sir,” said the youngest of that gathering, eagerly pushing across the bottle.  Hillyard filled his glass.  Port was his, and prestige too.  He might write a successful play.  That was all very well.  He might go shooting for eight months along by the two Niles and the Dinder.  That was all very well too.  He was welcome at the Senga Mess.  But he knew Sir Chichester Splay!  He acquired in an instant the importance of a prodigy.

“But, since he is an honorary member of your mess, you must know him too,” cried Hillyard.  “He must have come this way.”

“My dear Martin!” Luttrell expostulated, as one upbraiding a child.  “Sir Chichester Splay out of London!  The thing’s inconceivable!”

“Inconceivable!  Why, he lives in the country.”

A moment of consternation stilled all voices.  Then the Doctor spoke in a whisper.

“Is it possible that we are all wrong?”

“He lives at Rackham Park, in Sussex.”

Mr. Blacker fell back in relief.

“I know the house.  He is a new resident.  It is near to Chichester.  He went there on the Homoeopathic principle.”

The conjecture was actually true.  Sir Chichester Splay, spurred by his ambition to be a country gentleman with a foot in town, had chosen the neighbourhood on account of his name, so that it might come to be believed that he had a territorial connection.

“Describe him to us,” they all cried, and, when Hillyard had finished: 

“Well, he might be like that,” Luttrell conceded.  “It was not our idea.”