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           IscribbledthatschemeonabitofpaperandsatdowntoreadScudder’spages.

           InhalfanhourIwasreadingwithawhitishfaceandfingersthatdrummedonthetable.

           Iglancedoutofthewindowandsawabigtouring-carcominguptheglentowardstheinn.Itdrewupatthedoor,andtherewasthesoundofpeoplealighting.Thereseemedtobetwoofthem,meninaquascutumsandtweedcaps.

           Tenminuteslatertheinnkeeperslippedintotheroom,hiseyesbrightwithexcitement.

           “There’stwochapsbelowlookingforyou,”hewhispered.“They’reinthedining-roomhavingwhiskies-and-sodas.Theyaskedaboutyouandsaidtheyhadhopedtomeetyouhere.Oh!andtheydescribedyoujollywell,downtoyourbootsandshirt.Itoldthemyouhadbeenherelastnightandhadgoneoffonamotorbicyclethismorning,andoneofthechapssworelikeanavvy.”

           Imadehimtellmewhattheylookedlike.Onewasadark-eyedthinfellowwithbushyeyebrows,theotherwasalwayssmilingandlispedinhistalk.Neitherwasanykindofforeigner;onthismyyoungfriendwaspositive.

           ItookabitofpaperandwrotethesewordsinGermanasiftheywerepartofaletter—

           ...“BlackStone.Scudderhadgotontothis,buthecouldnotactforafortnight.IdoubtifIcandoanygoodnow,especiallyasKarolidesisuncertainabouthisplans.ButifMrT.advisesIwilldothebestI....”

           Imanufactureditratherneatly,sothatitlookedlikealoosepageofaprivateletter.