of the dried mud from his clothes as possible, and entered.
To the gentleman leisurely writing at a flat desk, he said, by way of introduction:
"I'm Mark Ingram."
Then, as a dazed and dawning look of haunting memory and puzzled recognition began to take form in his hearer's eyes, he added:
"Why, sir, why shouldn't I be?"
"By Jove—you should be!" the man cried. "Mark Ingram, you say? Then you're one of them! But I say, where are Alan and the baby?"
Mark's jaw fell. He almost staggered.
"What in the name of creation do you know about Alan and the baby?" he demanded faintly.
For answer, the official flapped down before him Mr. Tyler's incomprehensible telegram.
"But—how did you get this? How did they know—? What—? When—?" Mark gave up, with a feeble groan of amazement.
"Fell on me out of a clear sky," the man stated. "No idea what it meant. No previous correspondence with the gentleman. Not
