. Paragraphs appeared every day for a week hinting at
a diplomatic coup which would affect the balance of power in the Balkans
and materially shorten the war. Gorman, who knew Sir Bartholomew well,
found a good deal of entertainment in the newspaper paragraphs. He had
been a journalist himself for many years. He understood just whom
the paragraphs came from and how they got into print. He was a little
surprised, but greatly interested, when he received a note from Sir
Bartholomew.

"My dear Mr. Gorman," he read, "can you make it convenient to lunch
with me one day next week? Shall we say in my room in the office of the
Ministry--the Feodora Hotel, Piccadilly--at 1.30 p.m. There is a matter
of some importance--of considerable national importance--about which we
are most anxious to obtain your advice and your help. Will you fix the
earliest possible day? The condition of the Near East demands--urgently
demands--our attention. I am, my dear Mr. Gorman, yours, etc...."

Gorman without hesitation fixed Monday, which is the earliest day in
any week except Sunday, and he did not suppose that the offices of the
Ministry of Balkan Affairs would be open on Sunday.

It is not true, though it is frequently said, that Sir Bartholomew
retained the services of the chef of the Feodora Hotel when he took
over the building for the use of his Ministry. It is well known that Sir
Bartholomew--in his zeal for the public service--often lunched in his
office and sometimes invited men whom he wanted to see on business, to
lunch with him. They reported that the meals they ate were uncommonly
good, as the meals of a Minister of State certainly ought to be. It was
no doubt in this way that the slanderous story about the chef arose and
gained currency. Gorman did not believe it, because he knew that the
Feodora chef had gone to Beaufort's Hotel when the other was taken over
by the Government. But Gorman fully expected a good luncheon, nicely
served in one of the five rooms set apart for Sir Bartholomew's use in
the hotel.

He was not disappointed. The sole was all that anyone could ask. The
salmi which followed it was good, and even the Feodora chef could not
have sent up a better rum omelette.

Sir Bartholomew was wearing a canary-coloured waistcoat with
mother-of-pearl buttons.

It seemed to Gorman that the expanse of yellow broadened as luncheon
went on. Perhaps it actually did. Perhaps an atmosphere of illusion
was created by the port wh