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ToCaroline GrosvenorDuring the past year, in the intervals of an active life, I haveamused myself with constructing this tale. It has been scribbled inevery kind of odd place and moment - in England and abroad, duringlong journeys, in half-hours between graver tasks; and it bears, Ifear, the mark of its gipsy begetting. But it has amused me to write,and I shall be well repaid if it amuses you - and a few others - to read.Let no man or woman call its events improbable. The war hasdriven that word from our vocabulary, and melodrama has become theprosiest realism. Things unimagined before happen daily to our friendsby sea and land. The one chance in a thousand is habitually taken,and as often as not succeeds. Coincidence, like some new Briareus,stretches a hundred long arms hourly across the earth. Some day, whenthe full history is written - sober history with ample documents - thepoor romancer will give up business and fall to reading Miss Austenin a hermitage.The characters of the tale, if you think hard, you will recall.Sandy you know well. That great spirit was last heard of at Basra,where he occupies the post that once was Harry Bullivant's. RichardHannay is where he longed to be, commanding his battalion on theugliest bit of front in the West. Mr John S. Blenkiron, full ofhonour and wholly cured of dyspepsia, has returned to the States,after vainly endeavouring to take Peter with him. As for Peter, hehas attained the height of his ambition. He has shaved his beardand joined the Flying Corps.โฆ