I picked up a lot of out-of-the-way hints, but as
I am not a diplomatist I cannot use them. I think I have already made
you a present of most. By the by, I see from the papers that an
official expedition is going north from Bardur. What idiot invented
that?"
Wratislaw pulled his head in and sat back in his chair. "You are sure
you don't happen to know?"
"Sure. But it is just the sort of canard which the gentry on the other
side of the frontier would invent to keep things quiet. Who are the
Englishmen at Bardur now?"
The elder man looked shrewdly at the younger, who was carelessly pulling
a flower to pieces. "There's Logan, whom you know, and Thwaite and
Gribton."
"Good men all, but slow in the uptake. Logan is a jewel. He gave me
the best three days' shooting I ever dreamed of, and he has more stories
in his head than George. But if matters got into a tangle I would
rather not be in his company. Thwaite is a gentlemanlike sort of
fellow, but dull-very, while Gribton is the ordinary shrewd commercial
man, very cautious and rather timid."
"Did you ever happen to hear of a man called Marka? He might call
himself Constantine Marka, or Arthur Marker, or the Baron Mark--whatever
happened to suit him."
Lewis puzzled for a little. "Yes, of course I did. By George! I
should think so. It was a chap of that name who had gone north the week
before I arrived.
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