During the past year, in the of an active life, I have amused myself with constructing this tale. It has been in every kind of odd place and moment—in England and abroad, during long journeys, in half-hours between graver tasks; and it bears, I fear, the mark of its gipsy . 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 has driven that word from our vocabulary, and has become the prosiest realism. Things unimagined before happen daily to our friends by sea and land. The one chance in a thousand is taken, and as often as not succeeds. Coincidence, like some new Briareus, stretches a hundred long arms hourly across the earth. Some day, when the full history is written—sober history with ample documents—the poor romancer will give up business and fall to reading Miss Austen in 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 Bullivant’s. Richard Hannay is where he longed to be, commanding his on the ugliest bit of front in the West. Mr John S. Blenkiron, full of honour and wholly cured of dyspepsia, has returned to the States, after vainly endeavouring to take Peter with him. As for Peter, he has the height of his ambition. He has shaved his beard and joined the Flying .