across his chest and up to his armpits.  His beautifully shaped hands were exposed, and his face; nothing else.  His hair was a silvery white; his complexion parchment-like, pallid, entirely colourless.  His eyes were a soft shade of blue.  His features were so finely cut and chiselled that they resembled some exquisite piece of statuary.  He smiled as his nephew came slowly towards him.  One might almost have fancied that the young man’s abject state was a source of pleasure to him.

“So you are back again, my dear Gerald.  A pleasant surprise, indeed, but what is the meaning of it?  And what of my little commission, eh?”

The young man’s face was dark and sullen.  He spoke quickly but without any sign of eagerness or interest in the information he vouchsafed.

“The storm has stopped all the trains,” he said.  “The boat did not cross last night, and in any case I couldn’t have reached Harwich.  As for your commission, I travelled down from London alone with the man you told me to spy upon.  I could have stolen anything he had if I had been used to the work.  As it was—­I brought the man himself.”

Mr. Fentolin’s delicate fingers played with the handle of his chair.  The smile had passed from his lips.  He looked at his nephew in gentle bewilderment.

“My dear boy,” he protested, “come, come, be careful what you are saying.  You have brought the man himself!  So far as my information goes, Mr. John P. Dunster is charged with a very important diplomatic commission.  He is on his way to Cologne, and from what I know about the man, I think that it would require more than your persuasions to induce him to break off his journey.  You do not really wish me to believe that you have brought him here as a guest?”

“I was at Liverpool Street Station last night,” Gerald declared.  “I had no idea how to accost him, and as to stealing any of his belongings, I couldn’t have done it.  You must hear how fortune helped me, though.  Mr. Dunster missed the train; so did I —­purposely.  He ordered a special.  I asked permission to travel with him.  I told him a lie as to how I had missed the train.  I hated it, but it was necessary.”

Mr. Fentolin nodded approvingly.

“My dear boy,” he said, “to trifle with the truth is always unpleasant.  Besides, you are a Fentolin, and our love of truth is proverbial.  But there are times, you know, when for the good of others we must sacrifice our scruples.  So you told Mr. Dunster a falsehood.”

“He let me travel with him,” Gerald continued.  “We were all night getting about half-way here.  Then—­you know about the storm, I suppose?”

Mr. Fentolin spread out his hands.

“Could one avoid the knowledge of it?” he asked.  “Such a sight has never been seen.”

“We found we couldn’t get to Harwich,” Gerald went on.  “They telegraphed to London and got permission to bring us to Yarmouth.  We were on our way to Norwich, and the train ran off the line.”