"Now we shan't be long!" I said to myself. "But what the dickens does it
all mean?"
About ten long minutes passed before I heard voices and footsteps on the
stairs. The lock clicked again, the door opened, and there stood a
square-shouldered man in dark blue, with three gold rings on his sleeve
and a familiarly firm mouth and pair of steady eyes. For an instant I
could scarcely believe my own eyes, and then I knew that it actually
was--of all people--my own cousin. Commander John P. N. Whiteclett, R.N.,
whom I had last heard of two years before the war when he was on the East
Indies Station. And behind him I caught a glimpse of Jean Rendall. There
may have been others, but all I was conscious of was her eager face, the
eyes brighter than ever, and the lips a little parted in tense
excitement.
My cousin Jack spoke first.
"Good Lord, _you_ of all people, Roger!"
"My dear Jack!" I cried, and then I checked myself and shut that door.
"Well," said my cousin, with more candour than politeness, "I always
thought you would end in gaol, Roger, and you've had a dashed near squeak
this time, let me tell you. What new form of lunacy have you bust out
into?" His eye fell on my revolver. "And what are you doing with that
thing? If it's going to be suicide, let me fetch in a witness before you
begin.
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