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me.”
    â€œI’m not so sure. I’ve a sort of feeling that you’re going to strike lucky. What would you do if he offered you a job at the Admiralty?”
    Owen reached out for the toast-rack. “I’d probably kiss him,” he replied cheerfully.
    ***
    Though only a stone’s throw from Victoria Street, Queen Anne’s Gate still retains a good deal of its mellow eighteenth-century charm. Notwithstanding the fact that most of its houses have been altered for the use of government departments, Time and the Office of Works have not yet succeeded in wholly eradicating that gracious atmosphere of a bygone London, towards the final destruction of which their relentless energies are apparently directed. Even to-day the spectacle of a sedan chair in that sedate backwater would seem far more in harmony with the general background than the haughty and contemptuous swish past of the customary Rolls-Royce.
    Unlike the majority of its neighbours, number 17A had no official door-plate decorating its discreet but pleasant-looking exterior. It was a narrow, three-storey house with long, old-fashioned windows. The only modern thing about it was an electric bell, and having pressed this, Owen straightened up expectantly and threw away the end of his half-smoked cigarette. For some obscure reason he was conscious of a vague and rather irritating feeling of nervousness.
    Almost immediately the door was opened by a middle-aged manservant who had the air and appearance of a retired sergeant of marines. His hard blue eyes submitted the visitor to a swift but searching inspection.
    â€œI wish to see Captain Greystoke.” Owen produced a visiting-card. “I have an appointment with him for eleven-thirty.”
    â€œYes, sir. The Captain is expecting you. If you will come with me I will take you up to him at once.”
    Crossing a circular-shaped hall, they ascended a steep flight of stairs. On arriving at the first landing, the man halted outside a room on the right. In response to his tap somebody rapped out a curt “Come in,” and the next instant Owen found himself being ushered into a high-ceilinged, oak-panelled apartment, the bow windows of which looked out over St. James’s Park. Its only occupant, who was seated at a table in the centre, pushed aside some papers and rose to his feet.
    â€œLieutenant-Commander Bradwell, sir.”
    Captain Greystoke, a short, stockily-built man with a determined mouth and a pair of remarkably shrewd eyes, stepped forward and held out his hand.
    â€œAh, Bradwell, glad to make your acquaintance.” He imprisoned Owen’s fingers in a sudden crushing grip, and then, releasing them abruptly, glanced across at his henchman. “I don’t want to be disturbed for the next quarter of an hour, Barnes. If anyone rings up put them through to Mr. Everett.”
    â€œVery good, sir.”
    The door closed quietly, and moving back to the table, Captain Greystoke picked up a box of cigars.
    â€œTry one of these, unless you prefer a cigarette. If you do, you’ll find some in that box over there.”
    â€œThank you, sir.” Owen helped himself to an imposing-looking Cabana, and feeling a trifle surprised at the unexpected friendliness of his reception, sat down in the chair towards which his host had made an inviting gesture. Captain Greystoke resumed his former seat, and for a moment the two of them faced each other in silence.
    â€œI expect you have been wondering why I invited you to look me up.” The speaker smiled pleasantly. “The fact is I had a letter from your skipper, my old friend Carmichael. He told me about this unfortunate business of your suddenly going colour-blind. I understand that it happened on your way home from China.”
    â€œThat’s so, sir. Came on without the slightest warning.”
    â€œHe mentioned that you had been before a Medical Board at Plymouth, and that they were sending you up to Town