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APPED deep in the leather-bound luxury of an ample lounge-chair, walled apart from the world by the portentous silences and venerable solitude of the library of London's most exclusive club, Mr. Alan Law sprawled (largely on the nape of his neck), and, squinting discontentedly down his nose, plotted in furtherance of his own selfish ends.

He was exhaustively bored.

He had every legitimate reason to be bored. He had squeezed the orange of amusement dry and had nothing else to do but be bored. And this was England, this was June, this was his twenty-seventh summer; a combination of circumstances so alluring that with almost any other right-minded man it would have proved resistless.

He was, outwardly, a very ordinary person; that is to say, normally sane and good looking, well mannered, well cared for, well dressed. In other respects 3