desire to act as his support I pushed him from me, and as I did so glanced at the door through which he had been ejected. Upon the glass was a picture, presumably nautical, and under it this legend "The Green Sailor." In a flash Bournemouth post office rose before my mind's eye, the startled face of Baxter on the doorstep, the swinging pencil on the telegraph stand, and the imprint of the mysterious message addressed to "Nikola, Green Sailor Hotel, East India Dock Road." So complete was my astonishment that at first I could do nothing but stand stupidly staring at it, then my curiosity asserted itself and, seeking the private entrance, I stepped inside. A short passage conducted me to a small and evil-smelling room abutting on the bar. On the popular side of the counter the room was crowded; in the place where I found myself I was the sole customer. A small table stood in the centre, round this two or three chairs were ranged, whilst several pugnacious prints lent an air of decoration to the walls.
On the other side, to the left of that through which I had entered, a curtained doorway hinted at a similar room beyond. A small but heavily built man, whom I rightly judged to be the landlord, was busily engaged with an assistant in dispensing liquor at the counter, but when I rapped upon the table he forsook his customers, and came to learn my wishes. I called for a glass of whisky, and seated myself at the table preparatory to commencing my enquiries as to the existence of Baxter's mysterious friend. But at the moment that I was putting my first question the door behind the half-drawn curtain, which must have been insecurely fastened, opened about an inch, and a voice greeted my ears that brought me up all standing with surprise. It was the voice of Baxter himself.
