Sitting on the bridge in the soft May gloaming I pitched him a lovely yarn. It

was true in essentials, too, though I altered the minor details. I made out that

I was a mining magnate from Kimberley, who had had a lot of trouble with I.D.B.

and had shown up a gang. They had pursued me across the ocean, and had killed my

best friend, and were now on my tracks.

 

I told the story well, though I say it who shouldn’t. I pictured a flight across

the Kalahari to German Africa, the crackling, parching days, the wonderful

blue-velvet nights. I described an attack on my life on the voyage home, and I

made a really horrid affair of the Portland Place murder. “You’re looking for

adventure,” I cried; “well, you’ve found it here. The devils are after me, and

the police are after them. It’s a race that I mean to win.”

 

“By God!” he whispered, drawing his breath in sharply, “it is all pure Rider

Haggard and Conan Doyle.”

 

“You believe me,” I said gratefully.

 

“Of course I do,” and he held out his hand. “I believe everything out of the

common. The only thing to distrust is the normal.”

 

He was very young, but he was the man for my money.

 

“I think they’re off my track for the moment, but I must lie close for a couple