The smoking room of the Travelers club in London always enjoyed the visits of Richard Ellington late of the foreign office in London, but he had served in Syria, Arabia, and Iraq. He was a gentleman with a good post, subject to rapid promotion and not to mention, a substantial income from his portfolio. His residence at Berkeley Square No. 51 was a desirable address indeed.  If the gossip was any indication, he was a great favorite with the ladies.  Richard was the quintessential gentleman in his Saville Row suits, Lobbs shoes and James Lock hats that were the standard of the day.  He was friends to all the right people, member to all the right clubs, one who always seemed to find time for shooting weekends across the continent and Scotland, yacht excursions in the Mediterranean and other exotic ports, and parties given by every form of nobility imaginable across Europe.

Richard though was different from the other members.  He was one of those odd English gentlemen born to a father who was a Government official and had wanderlust.  They were in a new post every few years if not yearly.  Richard grew up speaking any number of languages, among them Greek, Arabic, Persian, Armenian, and several of the Turkic dialects.  He could read Latin, Greek, and Arabic.  He was only in his thirties, thirty-four to be exact, but had traveled the length and breadth of the Middle East and every time he came to the club, he told the most wondrous stories over cigars and brandy.  He was in the midst of one such rousing story when the page brought forth a message.  ‘Report office immediately F’ was all it said.

“Sorry gentlemen, but a lady beckons.”

“But the story.”  One listener argued.

“Very well, I shall end the suspense for you. The Kurds had the fair Marguerite and her father tied to a stake . . .” He went on with the story watching the clock all along.  Then he excused himself to make an appointment with the exotic upcoming actress, Vivian Mountebank.  No one ever thought about it to realize they had never heard of her, the description he left was enough to excite their imaginations. It should have, they were the best assets of the women that made their living as prostitutes on a street no one in the Travelers Club would ever be seen entering.

Richard alighted from the handsome cab along the river in front of the Foreign Office and was admitted immediately.

“No problems?”  The man opening the door asked.

“None Harold, I am beckoned by a lady a sight better looking than you.”

“So what took you so long?”

“I can’t cut out in the middle of a brush with death from the Kurds and not arouse suspicion.  They’d believe no woman had that much pull on me.  I came as soon as I rescued the damsel and escaped by the skin of my teeth.”  Harold watched him out of the corner of his eyes as they made their way through the long halls.

Richard was soon let into an office that looked more like the study of a country manor, then was left alone with the man in the chair.  Richard had often decided that Mr. Farmington had sprang to life from a description of Mycroft Holmes -Sherlock Holmes brother in the stories, in particular the most recent remembrances that had come out just that year, The Bruce Partington Plans.  Mr. Farmington could easily be described as the British Governments central clearinghouse, his word deciding national policy.  Richard had considered it the other way too, that Arthur Conan Doyle had met Mr. Farmington for even the description fit closely.  Heavy build, massive brow, steel gray deep set eyes that showed the intelligence that the government trusted with its secret affairs. But whereas Mycroft Holmes was massive and inactive, Mr. Farmington, was indeed massive, but instead quite active, resting his mind from work in a good game of Rugby that he had played first as a school boy and then at Oxford.  An odd grouping but he fit either group equally well.