s and purchased a local time-table, from
which we learned that the steamer sailed daily to Borkum _via_
Norderney, touching three times a week at Juist (weather permitting). On
the return journey to-day it was due at Norderney at 7.30 p.m. Then I
inquired the way to the 'Vier Jahreszeiten'. 'For whatever your
principles, Davies,' I said, 'we are going to have the best breakfast
money can buy! We've got the whole day before us.'

The 'Four Seasons' Hotel was on the esplanade facing the northern
beach. Living up to its name, it announced on an illuminated
sign-board, 'Inclusive terms for winter visitors; special attention
to invalids, etc.' Here in a great glass restaurant, with the
unruffled blue of ocean spread out before us, we ate the king of
breakfasts, dismissed the waiter, and over long and fragrant Havanas
examined my mail at leisure.

'What a waste of good diplomacy!' was my first thought, for nothing
had been tampered with, so far as we could judge from the minutest
scrutiny, directed, of course, in particular to the franked official
letters (for to my surprise there were two) from Whitehall.

The first in order of date (6th Oct.) ran: 'Dear Carruthers.--Take
another week by all means.--Yours, etc.'

The second (marked 'urgent') had been sent to my home address and
forwarded. It was dated 15th October, and cancelled the previous
letter, requesting me to return to London without delay--'I am sorry
to abridge your holiday, but we are very busy, and, at present,
short-handed.--Yours, etc.' There was a dry postscript to the effect
that another time I was to be good enough to leave more regular and
definite information as to my whereabouts when absent.

'I'm afraid I never got this!' I said, handing it to Davies.

'You won't go, will you?' said he, looking, nevertheless, with
unconcealed awe at the great man's handwriting under the haughty
official crest. Meanwhile I discovered an endorsement on a corner of
the envelope: 'Don't worry; it's only the chief's fuss.--M--' I
promptly tore up the envelope. There are domestic mysteries which it
would be indecent and disloyal to reveal, even to one's best friend.
The rest of my letters need no remark; I smiled over some and blushed
over others--all were voices from a life which was infinitely far
away. Davies, meanwhile, was deep in the foreign intelligence of a
newspaper, spelling it out line by line, and referring impatiently to
me for the meaning of words.

'Hull