It was simply impossible to believe that these three hearty fellows were anything but what they seemed--three ordinary, game-playing, suburban Englishmen, wearisome, if you like, but sordidly innocent.
And yet there were three of them; and one was old, and one was plump, and one was lean and dark; and their house chimed in with Scudder's notes; and half a mile off was lying a steam yacht with at least one German officer.

I thought of Karolides lying dead and all Europe trembling on the edge of earthquake, and the men I had left behind me in London who were waiting anxiously for the events of the next hours.
There was no doubt that hell was afoot somewhere.

The Black Stone had won, and if it survived this June night would bank its winnings.
There seemed only one thing to do--go forward as if I had no doubts, and if I was going to make a fool of myself to do it handsomely.

Never in my life have I faced a job with greater disinclination.

I would rather in my then mind have walked into a den of anarchists, each with his Browning handy, or faced a charging lion with a popgun, than enter that happy home of three cheerful Englishmen and tell them that their game was up.