At Liverpool Street Station I was accosted by a young man who informed me that his name was Gerald Fentolin, and that he was on his way to The Hague to play in a golf tournament.

His story seemed entirely probable, and I permitted him a seat in the special train I had chartered for Harwich.

There was an accident and I received this blow to my head--only a trifling affair, after all.

I come to my senses to find myself here.

I do not know exactly what part of the world you call this, but from the fact that I can see the sea from my window, it must be some considerable distance from the scene of the accident.