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 VERYBODY has been at me, right and left, to write this story from the great (represented by Lord Nasby) to the small (represented by our late maid of all work, Emily, whom I saw when I was last in England. "Lor', miss, what a beyewtiful book you might make out of it all—just like the pictures!").

I'll admit that I've certain qualifications for the task. I was mixed up in the affair from the very beginning. I was in the thick of it all through, and I was triumphantly "in at the death." Very fortunately, too, the gaps that I cannot supply from my own knowledge are amply covered by Sir Eustace Pedler's diary, of which he has kindly begged me to make use.

So here goes. Anne Beddingfeld starts to narrate her adventures.

I'd always longed for adventures. You see, my life had such a dreadful sameness. My father, Professor Beddingfeld, was one of England's greatest living authorities on Primitive Man. He really was a genius—every one admits that. His mind dwelt in Palæolithic times, and the inconvenience of life for him was that his body inhabited the modern world. Papa did not care for modern man—even Neolithic Man he despised as a mere herder of cattle, and he did not rise to enthusiasm until he reached the Mousterian period.

Unfortunately one cannot entirely dispense with modern men. One is forced to have some kind of truck with butchers and bakers and milkmen and greengrocers. Thereforce, Papa being immersed in the past, Mamma Rh