receiver to his ear.

"This is Captain Granet speaking," he said. "Who are you, please?"

The reply seemed to surprise him. He glanced across at his visitor.

"I shall be delighted," he answered into the instrument. "It is really
very kind of you.... About a quarter past eight?... Certainly! You'll
excuse my not being able to get into mufti, won't you?... Ever so many
thanks.... Good-bye!"

He laid down the receiver and turned to Thomson.

"Rather a coincidence," he observed. "Seems I am going to see you
to-night at dinner. That was Miss Geraldine Conyers who just rang
up--asked me if I'd like to meet her brother again before he goes off.
He is spending the afternoon at the Admiralty and she thought I might be
interested."

Major Thomson's face was expressionless and his murmured word
non-committal. Granet had approached the dark mahogany sideboard and was
fingering some bottles.

"Let me mix you a cocktail," he suggested. "By Jove! That fellow Conyers
would be the fellow for your American chaplain to get hold of. If he is
spending the afternoon down at the Admiralty, he'll have all the latest
tips about how they mean to deal with the submarines. I hear there are
at least three or four new inventions which they are keeping dark. You
like yours dry, I suppose?"

Thomson had risen to his feet and leaned forward towards the mirror for
a moment to straighten his tie. When he turned around, he glanced at the
collection of bottles Granet had been handling.

"I am really very sorry," he said. "I did not mean to put you to this
trouble. I never drink cocktails."

Granet paused in shaking the silver receptacle, and laid it down.

"Have a whisky and soda instead?"

Thomson shook his head.

"If you will excuse me," he said, "I will drink your health at
dinner-time. I have no doubt that your cocktails are excellent but I
never seem to have acquired the habit. What do you put in them?"

"Oh! just both sorts of vermouth and gin, and a dash of something to
give it a flavour," Granet explained carelessly.

Thomson touched a small black bottle, smelt it and put it down.

"What's that?" he asked.

"A mixture of absinth and some West Indian bitters," Granet replied.
"A chap who often goes to the States brought it back for me. Gives a
cocktail the real Yankee twang, he says."

Thomson nodded slowly.

"Rather a curious odour," he remarked. "We shall meet again, then,
Captain Granet."

They walked towards the door.