issuing its instructions solely through the medium of curt typewritten notes.  Something mystic and Tibetan and forbidden had replaced the human bustle and democratic simplicity of pre-migration days, and the same experience was encountered by those who made social overtures to the returned wanderers.  The most brilliant hostess of Twentieth Century London flung the pearl of her hospitality into the unresponsive trough of the editorial letter-box; it seemed as if nothing short of a Royal command would drag the hermit-souled revenants from their self-imposed seclusion.  People began to talk unkindly of the effect of high altitudes and Eastern atmosphere on minds and temperaments unused to such luxuries.  The Yarkand manner was not popular.”

“And the contents of the paper,” said the nephew, “did they show the influence of the new style?”

“Ah!” said Sir Lulworth, “that was the exciting thing.  In home affairs, social questions, and the ordinary events of the day not much change was noticeable.  A certain Oriental carelessness seemed to have crept into the editorial department, and perhaps a note of lassitude not unnatural in the work of men who had returned from what had been a fairly arduous journey.  The aforetime standard of excellence was scarcely maintained, but at any rate the general lines of policy and outlook were not departed from.  It was in the realm of foreign affairs that a startling change took place.  Blunt, forcible, outspoken articles appeared, couched in language which nearly turned the autumn manoeuvres of six important Powers into mobilisations.  Whatever else the Daily Intelligencer had learned in the East, it had not acquired the art of diplomatic ambiguity.  The man in the street enjoyed the articles and bought the paper as he had never bought it before; the men in Downing Street took a different view.  The Foreign Secretary, hitherto accounted a rather reticent man, became positively garrulous in the course of perpetually disavowing the sentiments expressed in the Daily Intelligencer’s leaders; and then one day the Government came to the conclusion that something definite and drastic must be done.  A deputation, consisting of the Prime Minister, the Foreign Secretary, four leading financiers, and a well-known Nonconformist divine, made its way to the offices of the paper.  At the door leading to the editorial department the way was barred by a nervous but defiant office-boy.

“‘You can’t see the editor nor any of the staff,’ he announced.

“‘We insist on seeing the editor or some responsible person,’ said the Prime Minister, and the deputation forced its way in.  The boy had spoken truly; there was no one to be seen.  In the whole suite of rooms there was no sign of human life.

“‘Where is the editor?’ ‘Or the foreign editor?’ ’Or the chief leader-writer?  Or anybody?’

“In answer to the shower of questions the boy unlocked a drawer and produced a strange-looking envelope, which bore a Khokand postmark, and a date of some seven or eight months back.  It contained a scrap of paper on which was written the following message: