ain was dripping and pattering with
persistent purpose. A chill, wet October afternoon was merging into a
bleak, wet October evening, and the club smoking-room seemed warmer and
cosier by contrast. It was an afternoon on which to be wafted away from
one's climatic surroundings, and "The Golden journey to Samarkand"
promised to bear Treddleford well and bravely into other lands and under
other skies. He had already migrated from London the rain-swept to
Bagdad the Beautiful, and stood by the Sun Gate "in the olden time" when
an icy breath of imminent annoyance seemed to creep between the book and
himself. Amblecope, the man with the restless, prominent eyes and the
mouth ready mobilised for conversational openings, had planted himself in
a neighbouring arm-chair. For a twelvemonth and some odd weeks
Treddleford had skilfully avoided making the acquaintance of his voluble
fellow-clubman; he had marvellously escaped from the infliction of his
relentless record of tedious personal achievements, or alleged
achievements, on golf links, turf, and gaming table, by flood and field
and covert-side. Now his season of immunity was coming to an end. There
was no escape; in another moment he would be numbered among those who
knew Amblecope to speak to--or rather, to suffer being spoken to.

The intruder was armed with a copy of _Country Life_, not for purposes of
reading, but as an aid to conversational ice-breaking.

"Rather a good portrait of Throstlewing," he remarked explosively,
turning his large challenging eyes on Treddleford; "somehow it reminds me
very much of Yellowstep, who was supposed to be such a good thing for the
Grand Prix in 1903. Curious race that was; I suppose I've seen every
race for the Grand Prix for the last--"

"Be kind enough never to mention the Grand Prix in my hearing," said
Treddleford desperately; "it awakens acutely distressing memories. I
can't explain why without going into a long and complicated story."

"Oh, certainly, certainly," said Amblecope hastily; long and complicated
stories that were not told by himself were abominable in his eyes. He
turned the pages of _Country Life_ and became spuriously interested in
the picture of a Mongolian pheasant.

"Not a bad representation of the Mongolian variety," he exclaimed,
holding it up for his neighbour's inspection. "They do very well in some
covers. Take some stopping too, once they're fairly on the wing. I
suppose the biggest bag I e