West, still attired in khaki uniform, but wearing the red chevron of
honourable discharge on his left sleeve, sat in the Club writing room,
his feet comfortably elevated, endeavouring to extract some entertainment
from the evening paper. The news was not particularly interesting,
however, and finally, obsessed with the feeling that it would soon be
time for him to seriously contemplate the procuring of suitable
employment, the young man turned the sheet about rather idly, and ran his
eyes down the columns devoted to classified advertising.

Half way down the first column, under the head of "miscellaneous," he
paused and read a paragraph with some interest; then read it over again,
emitting a soft whistle between his teeth.

"Well, by Jove!" he said to himself slowly, "That doesn't sound so bad
either; out of the ordinary, at least. Say, Thompson," and he turned to
a tall young fellow busily writing at the adjoining desk, and shoved the
paper under his eyes, pointing at the paragraph which had attracted
attention, with one finger, "What do you make out of that, old man?"

The other, rather sober-faced, and slow of speech, read the advertisement
word by word, with no change of expression.

"Rot," he said solemnly. "Either a joke, or some scheme on. Why?
interested in it?"

"In a measure, yes. Sounds rather business-like to me. I've got a good
mind to answer, and take a chance."

"You're a fool if you do, Matt," decisively, and turning back to his