“But Lord Chetney is a real person,” interrupted the Baronet, “and he did go to Africa two years ago, and he was supposed to have died there, and his brother, Lord Arthur, has been the heir.  And yesterday Chetney did return.  I read it in the papers.”

“So did I,” assented the American, soothingly; “and it struck me as being a very good plot for a story.  I mean his unexpected return from the dead, and the probable disappointment of the younger brother.  So I decided that the younger brother had better murder the older one.  The Princess Zichy I invented out of a clear sky.  The fog I did not have to invent.  Since last night I know all that there is to know about a London fog.  I was lost in one for three hours.”

The Baronet turned, grimly, upon the Queen’s Messenger.

“But this gentleman,” he protested, “he is not a writer of short stories; he is a member of the Foreign Office.  I have often seen him in Whitehall, and, according to him, the Princess Zichy is not an invention.  He says she is very well known, that she tried to rob him.”

The servant of the Foreign Office looked, unhappily, at the Cabinet Minister, and puffed, nervously, on his cigar.

“It’s true, Sir Andrew, that I am a Queen’s Messenger,” he said, appealingly, “and a Russian woman once did try to rob a Queen’s Messenger in a railway carriage—­only it did not happen to me, but to a pal of mine.  The only Russian princess I ever knew called herself Zabrisky.  You may have seen her.  She used to do a dive from the roof of the Aquarium.”

Sir Andrew, with a snort of indignation, fronted the young Solicitor.

“And I suppose yours was a cock-and-bull story, too,” he said.  “Of course, it must have been, since Lord Chetney is not dead.  But don’t tell me,” he protested, “that you are not Chudleigh’s son either.”

“I’m sorry,” said the youngest member, smiling, in some embarrassment, “but my name is not Chudleigh.  I assure you, though, that I know the family very well, and that I am on very good terms with them.”

“You should be!” exclaimed the Baronet; “and, judging from the liberties you take with the Chetneys, you had better be on very good terms with them, too.”

The young man leaned back and glanced toward the servants at the far end of the room.

“It has been so long since I have been in the Club,” he said, “that I doubt if even the waiters remember me.  Perhaps Joseph may,” he added.  “Joseph!” he called, and at the word a servant stepped briskly forward.

The young man pointed to the stuffed head of a great lion which was suspended above the fireplace.

“Joseph,” he said, “I want you to tell these gentlemen who shot that lion.  Who presented it to the Grill?”

Joseph, unused to acting as master of ceremonies to members of the Club, shifted, nervously, from one foot to the other.

“Why, you—­you did,” he stammered.