THE SWORD-PEN "Wutzler was missing last night," said Heywood, lazily.

He had finished breakfast, and lighted a short, fat, glossy pipe.

"Just occurred to me.
We must have a look in on him.

Poor old Wutz, he's getting worse and worse.

Chantel's right, I fancy: it's the native wife." He rose, with a short laugh.