To get from London to Shoreham, you must change trains at Brighton. Peter used the opportunity to lunch at the Royal York Hotel. Seeing him alone at a table by the window, Harry Preston, most vigilant of proprietors, came over; proffered an old brandy in celebration of the new uniform.

“That’s the Chalkshire badge you’re wearing, isn’t it?” asked Harry Preston.

“Yes, I’m joining them at Shoreham this afternoon.”

The little man whistled.

“What’s the joke?” queried Peter.

“Not for me to say, of course. But I’ve been doing business with your firm for some years; and if you’ll take my advice—don’t play cards with a gentleman named Locksley-Jones.”

“Who’s he?”

“You’ll find out when you get there.”

“Thanks for the hint,” smiled Peter. “Have a cigar, won’t you?”