So, a short time afterwards, a very happy Adrian sat down to dinner and brought a cultivated taste to the appreciation of a now, alas! historical wine, under whose influence he expanded and told us of the genesis and the making of "The Diamond Gate."
Now it is a very odd coincidence, one however which had little, if anything, to do with the curious entanglement of my friend's affairs into which I was afterwards drawn, but an odd coincidence all the same, that on passing from the dining room with Adrian to join Barbara in the drawing room, I found among the last post letters lying on the hall table one which, with a thrill of pleasure, I held up before Adrian's eyes.
"Do you recognise the handwriting?"
"Good Lord!" cried he. "It's from Jaffery Chayne. And"—he scanned the stamp and postmark—"from Cettinje. What the deuce is he doing there?"
"Let us see!" said I.
I opened the letter and scanned it through; then I read it aloud.
"Dear Hilary,
"A line to let you know that I'm coming back soon. I haven't quite finished my job—"
"What was his job?"
"Heaven knows," I replied. "The last time I heard from him he was cruising about the Sargasso Sea."