'You have been a guest in his house.

Then, I guess, the thing's about as good as done.' These words were spoken with a fine, sharp, nasal twang by a brilliantly-dressed American gentleman in one of the smartest private rooms of the great railway hotel at Liverpool, and they were addressed to a young Englishman who was sitting opposite to him.

Between them there was a table covered with maps, schedules, and printed programmes.

The American was smoking a very large cigar, which he kept constantly turning in his mouth, and half of which was inside his teeth.

The Englishman had a short pipe.