That's another!" said he, poking the fire savagely, and I knew what he meant. One cannot put steam-heat in houses where Queen Elizabeth slept. The steady beat of a night-mail, whirling down the valley, recalled me to business. "What about the Great Buchonian?" I said.

"Come into my study. That's all - as yet."

It was a pile of Seidlitz-powders-coloured correspondence, perhaps nine inches high, and it looked very businesslike.

"You can go through it," said Wilton. "Now I could take a chair and a red flag and go into Hyde Park and say the most atrocious things about your Queen, and preach anarchy and all that, y' know, till I was hoarse, and no one would take any notice. The Police damn 'em! - would protect me if I got into trouble. But for a little thing like flagging a dirty little sawed-off train, - running through my own grounds, too, - I get the whole British Constitution down on me as if I sold bombs. I don't understand it."

"No more does the Great Buchonian - apparently." I was turning over the letters. "Here's the traffic superintendent writing that it's utterly incomprehensible that any man should ... Good heavens, Wilton, you have done it!" I giggled, as I read on.

"What's funny now?" said my host.

"It seems that you, or Howard for you, stopped the three-forty Northern down