eper stirred.

"No, not another drop!" he muttered. "You fellows must have heads of
triple brass and stomachs of leather!"

"Get up, you rascal, or I'll spill you out of the chair!" said Grant.

A lazy hand removed the hat, and a pair of peculiarly big and bright eyes
gazed up into his.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" drawled a quiet voice. "Why the blazes did you
send for me? And, having sent, why wake me out of the best sleep I've
had for a week?"

"But why didn't you let me know you were coming? I would have met
the train."

"I did. Here's the telegram. That pink-cheeked maid of yours nearly had a
fit when I opened it to show her that I was expected."

"You wired from Victoria, I suppose?"

"Would you have preferred Charing Cross, or the Temple? Isn't Victoria
respectable?"

Grant laughed as they shook hands. Hart was the most casual adventurer in
existence. His specialty was revolutions. Wherever the flag of rebellion
was raised against a government, thither went Walter Hart post-haste by
train, steamer, or on horseback. He had been sentenced to death five
times, and decorated by successful Jack Cades twice as often.

"I'm a sort of outlaw. That's why I sought your help," explained Grant.

"I know all about you, Jack," said Hart slowly, picking up the pipe and
filling it from the pouch. The meerschaum was carved to represent the
head of a grinning negro, and was now ebon black from use.

"I felt like a pint of Sussex ale after a hot journey in the train, so
hied me to the village inn, where several obliging gentlemen told me your
real name. Two of them, Ingerman and Elkin, apparently make a hobby of
enlightening strangers as to your right place in society."

"I must interview Elkin."

"Not worth while, my boy. Ingerman is the crafty one. I thought I might
be doing you more harm than good, or I would have given him a thick ear
this afternoon ... Oh, by the way, what time is it?"

"Seven o'clock."

"A little fellow named Furneaux is coming here to dinner at seven-thirty.
Said he would drop in by the back door, and mutter 'Hush! I'm Hawkshaw,
the detective.' He resembles a cock-sparrow, so I asked him why he didn't
fly in through an attic window. He took my point at once, and remarked
that he wanted none of my lip, or he would ask me officially what became
of Don Ramon de Santander's big pink pearl. It's a queer yarn. There was
a bust-up in Guatemala--"

"Look here, Wally," broke in Grant anxiously. "Are y