“Life is very simple,” said Baltazar, “if we would only let it take its own course. It’s when we begin to mess about with it ourselves that the tangles come.”
When the meal was ended and coffee and cigars were brought round, the young man threw off further garments of reserve.
“I wonder whether I may ask you a question, sir?”
“A million,” replied Baltazar, “and I’ll do my best to answer every one.”
“It’s only this. You were such a great mathematician when you left Cambridge. I’ve been wondering all the time since yesterday what has happened—whether you’ve chucked mathematics or what——”
“My boy,” said Baltazar, “you’ve touched on tragedy.”
“I’m sorry,” said Godfrey.
“Oh, you haven’t been indiscreet. By no means. You’re bound to hear it sooner or later. So why not now? But it will take a little time. What are your engagements?”
“My afternoon is at your disposal, sir.”
“Very good,” said Baltazar. “I shall now proceed to tell you the amazing story of Spendale Farm, Quong Ho, and the Zeppelin.”