As they zigzagged in and out of the traffic, Desmond's thoughts were busy with the extraordinary mission entrusted to him. So he was to sink his own identity and don that of an Anglo-German business man, his appearance, accent, habits, everything. The difficulties of the task positively made him cold with fear. The man must have relations, friends, business acquaintances who would be sufficiently familiar with his appearance and manner to penetrate, at any rate in the long run, the most effective disguise. What did Bellward look like? Where did lie live? How was he, Desmond, to disguise himself to resemble him? And, above all, when this knotty problem of make-up had been settled, how was he to proceed? What should be his first step to pick out from among all the millions of London's teeming populace the one obscure individual who headed and directed this gang of spies?

Why hadn't he asked the Chief all these questions? What an annoying man the Chief was to deal with to be sure! All said and done, what had he actually told Desmond? That there was a German Secret service organization spying on the movements of troops to France, that this man, Basil Bellward, who had been arrested, was one of the gang and that the dancer, Nur-el-Din, was in some way implicated in the affair! And that was the extent of his confidence! On the top of all this fog of obscurity rested the dense cloud surrounding the murder of old Mackwayte with the unexplained, the fantastic, clue of that single hair pointing back to Nur-el-Din.

Desmond consoled himself finally by saying that he would be able too get some light on his mission from Barbara Mackwayte, whom he judged to be in the Chief's confidence. But here he was doomed to disappointment. Barbara could tell him practically nothing save what he already knew, that they were to work together in this affair. Like him, she was waiting for her instructions.

Barbara received him in a neat little suburban drawing-room in the house of her friends, who lived a few streets away from the Mackwaytes. She was wearing a plainly-made black crepe de chine dress which served to accentuate the extreme pallor of her face, the only outward indication of the great shock she had sustained. She was perfectly calm and collected, otherwise, and she stopped Desmond who would have murmured some phrases of condolence.

"Ah, no, please," she said, "I don't think I can speak about it yet."

She pulled a chair over for him and began to talk about the Chief.

"There's not the least need for you to worry," she said with a little woeful smile, like a sun-ray piercing a rain-cloud, "if the Chief says 'Go back to France and wait for instructions,' you may be sure that everything is arranged, and you will receive your orders in due course. So shall I. That's the Chief all over. Until you know him, you think he loves mystery for mystery's sake. It isn't that at all. He just doesn't trust us. He trusts nobody!"

"But that hardly seems fair to us..." began Desmond.

"It's merely a precaution," replied Barbara, "the Chief takes no risks. I've not the least doubt that he has decided to tell you nothing whatsoever about your part until you are firmly settled in your new role. I'm perfectly certain that every detail of your part has already been worked out."

"Oh, that's not possible," said Desmond. "Why, he didn't know until an hour ago that I was going to take on this job."

Barbara laughed.

"The Chief has taught me a lot about judging men by their looks," she said: "Personally, if I'd been in the Chief's places I should have gone ahead without consulting you, too."

The girl spoke with such directness that there was not the least suggestion of a compliment in her remark, but Desmond blushed to the roots of his hair. Barbara noticed it and added hastily:

"I'm not trying to pay you a compliment: I'm just judging by your type. I believe I can always tell the man that will take on any job, however dangerous, and carry it through to the end."

Desmond blushed more furiously than ever.

He made haste to divert the conversation into a safer channel.

"Well," he said slowly, "seeing that you and I were intended to work together, it seems to me to be a most extraordinary coincidence our meeting like that last night..."

"It was more than a coincidence," said Barbara, shaking her dark brown head. "Forty-eight hours ago I'd never heard of you, then the Chief gave me a telegram to send to your Divisional General summoning you home, after that he told me that we were to work together, and a few hours later I run into you in Nur-el-Din's dressing-room..."

She broke off suddenly, her gray eyes big with fear. She darted across the room to an ormolu table on which her handbag was lying. With astonishment, Desmond watched her unceremoniously spill out the contents on to the table and rake hastily amongst the collection of articles which a pretty girl carries round in her bag.

Presently she raised herself erect and turning, faced the officer. She was trembling as though with cold and when she spoke, her voice was low and husky.

"Gone!" she whispered.

"Have you lost anything" Desmond asked anxiously.

"How could I have forgotten it?" she went on as though he had not spoken, "how could I have forgotten it? Nearly twelve hours wasted, and it explains everything. What will the Chief think of me!"

Slowly she sank down on the sofa where she had been sitting, then, without any warning, dropped her head into her hands and burst into tears.

Desmond went over to her.

"Please don't cry," he said gently, "you have borne up so bravely against this terrible blow; you must try and not let it overwhelm you."

All her business-like calm had disappeared now she was that most distracting of all pictures of woman, a pretty girl overwhelmed with grief. She crouched curled upon the sofa, with shoulders heaving, sobbing as though her heart would break.

"Perhaps you would like me to leave you?" Desmond asked. "Let me ring for your friends... I am sure you would rather be alone!"

She raised a tear-stained face to his, her long lashes glittering.

"No, no," she said, "don't go, don't go! I want your help. This is such a dark and dreadful business, more than I ever realized. Oh, my poor daddy, my poor daddy!"

Again she hid her face in her hands and cried whilst Desmond stood erect by her aide, compassionate but very helpless.

After a little, she dabbed her eyes with a tiny square of cambric, and sitting up, surveyed the other.

"I must go to the Chief at once," she said, "it is most urgent. Would you ring and ask the maid to telephone for a taxi?"

"I have one outside," answered Desmond. "But won't you tell me what has happened?"

"Why," said Barbara, "it has only just dawned on me why our house was broken into last night and poor daddy so cruelly murdered! Whoever robbed the house did not come after our poor little bits of silver or daddy's savings in the desk in the dining room. They came after something that I had!"

"And what was that" asked Desmond.

Then Barbara told him of her talk with Nur-el-Din in the dancer's dressing-room on the previous evening and of the package which Nur-el-Din had entrusted to her care.

"This terrible business put it completely out of my head," said Barbara. "In the presence of the police this morning, I looked over my bedroom and even searched my hand-bag which the police sent back to me this afternoon without finding that the burglars had stolen anything. It was only just now, when we were talking about our meeting in Nur-el-Din's room last night, that her little package suddenly flashed across my mind. And then I looked through my handbag again and convinced myself that it was not there."

"But are you sure the police haven't taken it?"

"Absolutely certain," was the reply. "I remember perfectly what was in my hand-bag this morning when I went through it, and the same things are on that table over there now."

"Do you know what was in this package!" said Desmond.

"Just a small silver box, oblong and quite plain, about so big," she indicated the size with her hands, "about as large as a cigarette-box. Nur-el-Din said it was a treasured family possession of hers, and she was afraid of losing it as she traveled about so much. She asked me to say nothing about it and to keep it until the war was over or until she asked me for it."

"Then," said Desmond, "this clears Nur-el-Din!"

"What do you mean," said Barbara, looking up.

"Simply that she wouldn't have broken into your place and killed your father in order to recover her own package..."

"But why on earth should Nur-el-Din be suspected of such a thing?"

"Have you heard nothing about this young lady from the Chief?"

"Nothing. I had not thought anything about her until daddy discovered an old friend in her last night and introduced me."

The Chief's infernal caution again! thought Desmond, secretly admiring the care with which that remarkable man, in his own phrase, "sealed both ends of every connection."

"If I'm to work with this girl," said Desmond to himself, "I'm going to have all the cards on the table here and now," so forthwith he told her of the Chief's suspicions of the dancer, the letter recommending her to Bellward found when the cheese merchant had been arrested, and lastly of the black hair which had been discovered on the thongs with which Barbara had been fastened.

"And now," Desmond concluded, "the very next thing we must do is to go to the Chief and tell him about this package of Nur-el-Din's that is missing." Barbara interposed quickly.

"It's no use your coming," she said. "The Chief won't see you. When he has sent a man on his mission, he refuses to see him again until the work has been done. If he wishes to send for you or communicate with you, he will. But it's useless for you to try and see him yourself. You can drop me at the office!"

Desmond was inclined to agree with her on this point and said so.

"There is one thing especially that puzzles me, Miss Mackwayte," Desmond observed as they drove westward again, "and that is, how anyone could have known about your having this box of Nur-el-Din's. Was there anybody else in the room when she gave you the package?"

"No," said Barbara, "I don't think so. Wait a minute, though, Nur-el-Din's maid must have come in very shortly after for I remember the opened the door when Captain Strangwise came to tell me daddy was waiting to take me home."

"Do you remember if Nur-el-Din actually mentioned the package in the presence of the maid!"

"As far as I can recollect just as the maid opened the door to Captain Strangwise, Nur-el-Din was impressing on me again to take great care of the package. I don't think she actually mentioned the box but I remember her pointing at my bag where I had put the package."

"The maid didn't see Nur-el-Din give you the box?"

"No, I'm sure of that. The room was empty save for us two. It was only just before Captain Strangwise knocked that I noticed Marie arranging Nur-el-Din's dresses. She must have come in afterwards without my seeing her."

"Well then, this girl, Marie, didn't see the dancer give you the box but she heard her refer to it. Is that right?"

"Yes, and, of course, Captain Strangwise..."

"What about him?"

"He must have heard what Nur-el-Din was saying, too!"

Desmond rubbed his chin.

"I say, you aren't going to implicate old Strangwise, too, are you?" he asked.

Barbara did not reflect his smile.

"He seems to know Nur-el-Din pretty well," she said, "and I'll tell you something else, that woman's afraid of your friend, the Captain!"

"What do you mean?" asked Desmond.

"I was watching her in the glass last night as he was talking to her while you and I and daddy were chatting in the corner. I don't know what he said to her, but she glanced over her shoulder with a look of terror in her eyes. I was watching her face in the glass. She looked positively hunted!"

The taxi stopped. Desmond jumped out and helped his companion to alight.

"Au revoir." she said to him, "never fear, you and I will meet very soon again!"

With that she was gone. Desmond looked at his watch. It pointed to a quarter to six.

"Now I wonder what time the leave-train starts tonight," he said aloud, one foot on the sideboard of the taxi.

"At 7.45, sir," said a voice.

"Desmond glanced round him. Then he saw it was the taxi-driver who had spoken.

"7.45, eh?" said Desmond. "From Victoria, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir," said the taxi-man.

"By Jove, I haven't much time," ejaculated the officer "and there are some things I want to get before I go back across the Channel. And I shall have to see the Railway Transport Officer about my pass."

"That's all right, sir," said the taxi-man, "I have your papers here"; he handed Desmond a couple of slips of paper which he took from his coat-pocket; "those will take you back to France all right, I think you'll find!"

Desmond looked at the papers: they were quite in order and correctly filled up with his name, rank and regiment, and date.

The taxi-man cut short any further question by saying:

"If you'll get into the cab again, sir, I'll drive you where you want to go, and then wait while you have your dinner and take you to the station. By the way, your dinner's ordered too!"

"But who the devil are you?" asked Desmond in amazement.

"On special service, the same as you, sir!" said the man with a grin and Desmond understood.

Really, the Chief was extremely thorough.

They went to the stores in the Haymarket, to Fortnum and Mason's, and lastly, to a small, grubby shop at the back of Mayfair where Desmond and his brother had bought their cigarettes for years past. Desmond purchased a hundred of their favored brand, the Dionysus, as a reserve for his journey back to France, and stood chatting over old times with the fat, oily-faced Greek manager as the latter tied up his cigarettes into a clean white paper parcel, neatly sealed up with red sealing wax.

Then Desmond drove back to the Nineveh Hotel where he left his taxi-driving colleague in the courtyard on the understanding that at 7.25 the taxi would be waiting to drive him to the station.

Desmond went straight upstairs to his room to put his kit together. In the strong, firmly woven web spread by the Chief, he felt as helpless as a fly caught in a spider's mesh. He had no idea of what his plans were. He only knew that he was going back to France, and that it was his business to get on the leave-boat that night.

As he passed along the thickly carpeted, silent corridor to his room, he saw the door of Strangwise's room standing ajar. He pushed open the door and walked in unceremoniously. A suitcase stood open on the floor with Strangwise bending over it. At his elbow was a table crowded with various parcels, a case of razors, different articles of kit, and some books. Desmond halted at the door, his box of cigarettes dangling from his finger.

"Hullo, Maurice," he said, "are you off, too?"

Strangwise spun round sharply. The blood had rushed to his face, staining it with a dark, angry flush.

"My God, how you startled me!" he exclaimed rather testily. "I never heard you come in!"

He turned rather abruptly and went on with his packing. He struck Desmond as being rather annoyed at the intrusion; the latter had never seen him out of temper before.

"Sorry if I butted in," said Desmond, sliding his box of cigarettes off his finger on to the littered table and sitting down on a chair. "I came in to say good-bye. I'm going back to France to-night!"

Maurice looked round quickly. He appeared to be quite his old self again and was all smiles now.

"So soon?" he said. "Why, I thought you were getting a job at the War Office!"

Desmond shook his head.

"Not good enough," he replied, "it's back to the sandbags for mine. But where are you off to?"

"Got a bit of leave; the Intelligence folk seem to be through with me at last, so they've given me six weeks!"

"Going to the country" asked Desmond.

Strangwise nodded.

"Yep," he said, "down to Essex to see if I can get a few duck or snipe on the fens. I wish you were coming with me!"

"So do I, old man," echoed Desmond heartily. Then he added in a serious voice:

"By the way, I haven't seen you since last night. What a shocking affair this is about old Mackwayte, isn't it? Are there any developments, do you know?"

Strangwise very deliberately fished a cigarette out of his case which was lying open on the table and lit it before replying.

"A very dark affair," he said, blowing out a cloud of smoke and flicking the match into the grate. "You are discreet, I know, Okewood. The Intelligence people had me up this morning... to take my evidence..."

Strangwise's surmise about Desmond's discretion was perfectly correct. With Desmond Okewood discretion was second nature, and therefore he answered with feigned surprise: "Your evidence about what? About our meeting the Mackwaytes last night?"

After he had spoken he realized he had blundered. Surely, after all, the Chief would have told Strangwise about their investigations at Seven Kings. Still...

"No," replied Strangwise, "but about Nur-el-Din!"

The Chief had kept his own counsel about their morning's work. Desmond was glad now that he had dissimulated.

"You see, I know her pretty well," Strangwise continued, "between ourselves, I got rather struck on the lady when she was touring in Canada some years ago, and in fact I spent so much more money than I could afford on her that I had to discontinue the acquaintance. Then I met her here when I got away from Germany a month ago; she was lonely, so I took her about a bit. Okewood, I'm afraid I was rather indiscreet."

"How do you mean?" Desmond asked innocently.

"Well," said Strangwise slowly, contemplating the end of his cigarette, "it appears that the lady is involved in certain activities which considerably interest our Intelligence. But there, I mustn't say any more!"

"But how on earth is Nur-el-what's her name concerned in this murder, Maurice?"

Strangwise shrugged his shoulders.

"Ah, you'd better ask the police. But I tell you she'll be getting into trouble if she's not careful!"

Throughout this conversation Desmond seemed to hear in his ears Barbara's words: "That woman's afraid of your friend!" He divined that for some reason or other, Strangwise wanted to create a bad impression in his mind about the dancer. He scanned Maurice's face narrowly. Its impenetrability was absolute. There was nothing to be gleaned from those careless, smiling features.

"Well," said Desmond, getting up, "nous verrons. I shall have to make a bolt for it now if I don't want to miss my train. Good-bye, Maurice, and I hope you'll get some birds!"

"Thanks, old man. Au revoir, and take care of yourself. My salaams to the General!".

They shook hands warmly, then Desmond grabbed his box of cigarettes in its neat white wrapper with the bold red seals and hurried off to his room.

Strangwise stood for a moment gazing after him. He was no longer the frank, smiling companion of a minute before. His mouth was set hard and his chin stuck out at a defiant angle.

He bent over the table and picked up a white paper package sealed with bold red seals. He poised it for a moment in his hands while a flicker of a smile stole into the narrow eyes and played for an instant round the thin lips. Then, with a quick movement, he thrust the little package into the side pocket of his tunic and buttoned the flap.

Whistling a little tune, he went on with his packing.



CHAPTER IX. METAMORPHOSIS

It was a clear, cold night. A knife-edge icy wind blew from the north-east and kept the lanyards dismally flapping on the flag-mast over the customs house. The leave train lay in the station within a biscuit's throw of the quayside and the black, blank Channel beyond, a long line of cheerfully illuminated windows that to those returning from leave seemed as the last link with home.

The Corporal of Military Police, who stood at the gangway examining the passes, stopped Desmond Okewood as the latter held out his pass into the rays of the man's lantern.

"There was a message for you, sir," said the Corporal. "The captain of the Staff boat would h-esteem it a favor, sir, if you would kindly go to his cabin immediately on h-arriving on board, sir!"

"Very good, Corporal!" answered the officer and passed up the gang plank, enviously regarded by the press of brass-hats and red-tabs who, for the most part, had a cramped berth below or cold quarters on deck to look forward to.

A seaman directed Desmond to the Captain's cabin. It was built out just behind the bridge, a snug, cheery room with bright chintz curtains over the carefully screened portholes, a couple of comfortable benches with leather seats along the walls, a small bunk, and in the middle of the floor a table set out with a bottle of whiskey, a siphon and some glasses together with a box of cigars.

The Captain was sitting there chatting to the pilot, a short, enormously broad man with a magenta face and prodigious hands which were folded round a smoking glass of toddy.

"Pick 'em up? Rescue 'em?" the pilot ejaculated, as Desmond walked in, "I'd let 'em sink, every man Jack o' them, the outrageous murderin' scoundrels. I don't like to hear you a-talking of such nonsense, Cap'en!"

On Desmond's entrance the Captain broke off the conversation. He proved to be a trimly-built man of about fifty with a grizzled beard, and an air of quiet efficiency which is not uncommonly found in seamen. The pilot drained his glass and, scrambling to his feet, nodded to Desmond and stumped out into the cold night air.

"Jawin' about the U boats!" said the Captain, with a jerk of his head towards the cabin door, "I don't know what the feelings of your men in the trenches are towards Fritz, Major, but I tell you that no German will dare set foot in any coast port of the United Kingdom in my life-time or yours, either! Accommodation's a bit narrow on board. I thought maybe you'd care to spend the night up here!"

"Any orders about me?" asked Desmond.

The Captain went a shade deeper mahogany in the face.

"Oh no," he replied, with an elaborate assumption of innocence. "But won't you mix yourself a drink? And try one of my cigars, a present from a skipper friend of mine who sailed into Tilbury from Manila last week."

Desmond sat in the snug cabin, puffing a most excellent cigar and sipping his whiskey and soda while, amid much shouting of seamen and screaming of windlasses, the staff boat got clear. Presently they were gliding past long low moles and black, inhospitable lighthouses, threading their way through the dark shapes of war craft of all kinds into the open Channel. There was a good deal of swell, but the sea was calm, and the vessel soon steadied down to regular rise and fall.

They had been steaming for nearly an hour when, through the open door of the cabin, Desmond saw a seaman approach the captain on the bridge. He handed the skipper a folded paper.

"From the wireless operator, sir!" Desmond heard him say.

The skipper scanned it. Then the engine telegraph rang sharply, there was the sound of churning water, and the vessel slowed down. The next moment the Captain appeared at the door of the cabin.

"I'm afraid we're going to lose you, Major," he said pleasantly, "a destroyer is coming up to take you off. There was a wireless from the Admiral about you."

"Where are they going to take me, do you know?" asked Desmond.

The Captain shook his head.

"I haven't an idea. I've only got to hand you over!"

He grinned and added:

"Where's your kit?"

"In the hold, I expect!" answered Desmond. "The porter at Victoria told me not to worry about it, and that I should find it on the other side. And, oh damn it!—I've got a hundred cigarettes in my kit, too! I bought them specially for the journey!"

"Well, take some of my cigars," said the skipper hospitably, "for your traps'll have to go to France this trip, Major. There's no time to get 'em up now. I'll pass the word to the Military Landing Officer over there about 'em, if you like. He'll take care of 'em for you. Now will you come with me?"

Desmond scrambled into his coat and followed the Captain down the steps to the deck. A little distance away from the vessel, the long shape of a destroyer was dimly visible tossing to and fro in the heavy swell. A ladder had been let down over the side of the steamer, and at its foot a boat, manned by a number of heavily swathed and muffled forms, was pitching.

A few officers stood by the rail watching the scene with interest. The skipper adroitly piloted Desmond past them and fairly thrust him out on to the ladder.

Desmond took the hint and with a hasty "Good night" to the friendly captain, staggered down the swaying ladder and was helped into the boat. The boat shoved off, the bell of the engine telegraph on the steamer resounded sharply, and the vessel resumed her interrupted voyage whilst the rowing boat was headed towards the destroyer. On board the latter vessel an officer met Desmond at the rail and piloted him to the ward-room. Almost before they got there, the destroyer was under way.

The officer who had welcomed him proved to be the second in command, a joyous person who did the honors of the tiny ward-room with the aplomb of a Commander in a super-Dreadnought. He mixed Desmond a drink and immediately started to converse about life at the front without giving the other a chance of asking whither they were bound.

The suspense was not of long duration, however, for in about half an hour's time, the destroyer slowed down and Desmond's host vanished. When he reappeared, it was to summon Desmond on deck.

They lay aside a mole by some steps cut in the solid concrete. Here Desmond's host took leave of him.

"There should be a car waiting for you up there," he said.

There on top of the mole, exposed to the keen blast of the wind, a large limousine was standing. A chauffeur, who looked blue with cold, got down from his seat as Desmond emerged from the stairs and touched his cap.

"Major Okewood?" he asked.

"That's my name!" said Desmond.

"If you'll get in, sir, we'll start at once!" the man replied.

Befogged and bewildered, Desmond entered the car, which cautiously proceeded along the breakwater, with glimpses of black water and an occasional dim light on either hand. They bumped over the railway-lines and rough cobblestones of a dockyard, glided through a slumbering town, and so gradually drew out into the open country where the car gathered speed and fairly raced along the white, winding road. Desmond had not the faintest idea of their whereabouts or ultimate destination. He was fairly embarked on the great adventure now, and he was philosophically content to let Fate have its way with him. He found himself wondering rather indolently what the future had in store.

The car slowed down and the chauffeur switched the headlights on. Their blinding glare revealed some white gate-posts at the entrance of a quiet country station. Desmond looked at his watch. It was half-past one. The car stopped at the entrance to the booking-office where a man in an overcoat and bowler was waiting.

"This way, Major, please," said the man in the bowler, and led the way into the dark and silent station. At the platform a short train consisting of an engine, a Pullman car and a brakesman's van stood, the engine under steam. By the glare from the furnace Desmond recognized his companion. It was Matthews, the Chief's confidential clerk.

Matthews held open the door of the Pullman for Desmond and followed him into the carriage. A gruff voice in the night shouted:

"All right, Charley!" a light was waved to and fro, and the special pulled out of the echoing station into the darkness beyond.

In the corner of, the Pullman a table was laid for supper. There was a cold chicken, a salad, and a bottle of claret. On another table was a large tin box and a mirror with a couple of electric lights before it. At this table was seated a small man with gray hair studying a large number of photographs.

"If you will have your supper, Major Okewood, sir," said Matthews, "Mr. Crook here will get to work. We've not got too much time."

The sea air had made Desmond ravenously hungry. He sat down promptly and proceeded to demolish the chicken and make havoc of the salad. Also he did full justice to the very excellent St. Estephe.

As he ate he studied Matthews, who was one of those undefinable Englishmen one meets in tubes and 'buses, who might be anything from a rate collector to a rat catcher. He had sandy hair plastered limply across his forehead, a small moustache, and a pair of watery blue eyes. Mr. Crook, who continued his study of his assortment of photographs without taking the slightest notice of Desmond, was a much more alert looking individual, with a shock of iron gray hair brushed back and a small pointed beard.

"Matthew's," said Desmond as he supped, "would it be indiscreet to ask where we are?"

"In Kent, Major," replied Matthews.

"What station was that we started from?"

"Faversham."

"And where are we going, might I inquire?"

"To Cannon Street, sir!"

"And from there?"

Mr. Matthews coughed discreetly.

"I can't really say, sir, I'm sure! A car will meet you there and I can go home to bed."

The ends sealed again! thought Desmond. What a man of caution, the Chief!

"And this gentleman here, Matthews?" asked Desmond, lighting one of the skipper's cigars.

"That, sir, is Mr. Crook, who does any little jobs we require in the way of make-up. Our expert on resemblances, if I may put it that way, sir, for we really do very little in the way of disguises. Mr. Crook is an observer of what I may call people's points, sir, their facial appearance, their little peculiarities of manner, of speech, of gait. Whenever there is any question of a disguise, Mr. Crook is called in to advise as to the possibilities of success. I believe I am correct in saying, Crook, that you have been engaged on the Major here for some time. Isn't it so?"

Crook looked up a minute from his table.

"That's right," he said shortly, and resumed his occupation of examining the photographs.

"And what's your opinion about this disguise of mine?" Desmond asked him.

"I can make a good job of you, Major," said the expert, "and so I reported to the Chief. You'll want to do your hair a bit different and let your beard grow, and then, if you pay attention to the lessons I shall give you, in a week or two, you'll be this chap here," and he tapped the photograph in his hand, "to the life."

So saying he handed Desmond the photograph. It was the portrait of a man about forty years of age, of rather a pronounced Continental type, with a short brown beard, a straight, rather well-shaped nose and gold-rimmed spectacles. His hair was cut en brosse, and he was rather full about the throat and neck. Without a word, Desmond stretched out his hand and gathered up a sheaf of other photos, police photos of Mr. Basil Bellward, front face and profile seen from right and left, all these poses shown on the same picture, some snapshots and various camera studies. Desmond shook his head in despair. He was utterly unable to detect the slightest resemblance between himself and this rather commonplace looking type of business man.

"Now if you'd just step into the compartment at the end of the Pullman, Major," said Crook, "you'll find some civilian clothes laid out. Would you mind putting them on? You needn't trouble about the collar and tie, or coat and waistcoat for the moment. Then we'll get along with the work."

The train rushed swaying on through the darkness. Desmond was back in the Pullman car in a few minutes arrayed in a pair of dark gray tweed trousers, a white shirt and black boots and socks. A cut-away coat and waistcoat of the same tweed stuff, a black bowler hat of rather an old-fashioned and staid pattern, and a black overcoat with a velvet collar, he left in the compartment where he changed.

He found that Crook had opened his tin box and set out a great array of grease paints, wigs, twists of tow of various colors, and a number of pots and phials of washes and unguents together with a whole battery of fine paint brushes. In his hand he held a pair of barber's clippers and the tips of a comb and a pair of scissors protruded from his vest pocket.

Crook whisked a barber's wrap round Desmond and proceeded, with clippers and scissors, to crop and trim his crisp black hair.

"Tst-tst" he clicked with his tongue. "I didn't realize your hair was so dark, Major. It'll want a dash of henna to lighten it."

The man worked with incredible swiftness. His touch was light and sure, and Desmond, looking at his reflection in the glass, wondered to see what fine; delicate hands this odd little expert possessed. Matthews sat and smoked in silence and watched the operation, whilst the special ran on steadily Londonwards.

When the clipping was done, Crook smeared some stuff on a towel and wrapped it round Desmond's head.

"That'll brighten your hair up a lot, sir. Now for a crepe beard just to try the effect. We've got to deliver you at Cannon Street ready for the job, Mr. Matthews and me, but you won't want to worry with this nasty messy beard once you get indoors. You can grow your own beard, and I'll pop in and henna it a bit for you every now and then."

There was the smart of spirit gum on Desmond's cheeks and Crook gently applied a strip of tow to his face. He had taken the mirror away so that Desmond could no longer see the effect of the gradual metamorphosis.

"A mirror only confuses me," said the expert, breathing hard as he delicately adjusted the false beard, "I've got this picture firm in my head, and I want to get it transferred to your face. Somehow a mirror puts me right off. It's the reality I want."

As he grew more absorbed in his work, he ceased to speak altogether. He finished the beard, trimmed the eyebrows, applied a dash of henna with a brush, leaning backwards continually to survey the effect. He sketched in a wrinkle or two round the eyes with a pencil, wiped them out, then put them in again. Then he fumbled in his tin box, and produced two thin slices of grey rubber.

"Sorry," he said, "I'm afraid you'll have to wear these inside your cheeks to give the effect of roundness. You've got an oval face and the other man has a round one. I can get the fullness of the throat by giving you a very low collar, rather open and a size too large for you."

Desmond obediently slipped the two slices of rubber into his mouth and tucked them away on either side of his upper row of teeth. They were not particularly uncomfortable to wear.

"There's your specs," said Crook, handing him a spectacle case, "and there's the collar. Now if you'll put on the rest of the duds, we'll have a look at you, sir."

Desmond went out and donned the vest and coat and overcoat, and, thus arrayed, returned to the Pullman, hat in hand.

Crook called out to him as he entered

"Not so springy in the step, sir, if you please. Remember you're forty-three years of age with a Continental upbringing. You'll have to walk like a German, toes well turned out and down on the heel every time. So, that's better. Now, have a look at yourself!"

He turned and touched a blind. A curtain rolled up with a click, disclosing a full length mirror immediately opposite Desmond.

Desmond recoiled in astonishment. He could scarcely credit his own eyes. The glass must be bewitched, he thought for a moment, quite overwhelmed by the suddenness of the shock. For instead of the young face set on a slight athletic body that the glass was wont to show him, he saw a square, rather solid man in ugly, heavy clothes, with a brown silky beard and gold spectacles. The disguise was baffling in its completeness. The little wizard, who had effected this change and who now stood by, bashfully twisting his fingers about, had transformed youth into middle age. And the bewildering thing was that the success of the disguise did not lie so much in the external adjuncts, the false beard, the pencilled wrinkles, as in the hideous collar, the thick padded clothes, in short, in the general appearance.

For the first time since his talk with the Chief at the United Service Club, Desmond felt his heart grow light within him. If such miracles were possible, then he could surmount the other difficulties as well.

"Crook," he said, "I think you've done wonders. What do you say, Matthews?"

"I've seen a lot of Mr. Crook's work in my day, sir," answered the clerk, "but nothing better than this. It's a masterpiece, Crook, that's what it is."

"I'm fairly well satisfied," the expert murmured modestly, "and I must say the Major carries it off very well. But how goes the enemy, Matthews?"

"It's half past two," replied, the latter, "we should reach Cannon Street by three. She's running well up to time, I think."

"We've got time for a bit of a rehearsal," said Crook. "Just watch me, will you please, Major, and I'll try and give you an impression of our friend. I've been studying him at Brixton for the past twelve days, day and night almost, you might say, and I think I can convey an idea of his manner and walk. The walk is a very important point. Now, here is Mr. Bellward meeting one of his friends. Mr. Matthews, you will be the friend!"

Then followed one of the most extraordinary performances that Desmond had ever witnessed. By some trick of the actor's art, the shriveled figure of the expert seemed to swell out and thicken, while his low, gentle voice deepened into a full, metallic baritone. Of accent in his speech there was none, but Desmond's ear, trained to foreigners' English, could detect a slight Continental intonation, a little roll of the "r's," an unfamiliar sound about those open "o's" of the English tongue, which are so fatal a trap for foreigners speaking our language. As he watched Crook, Desmond glanced from time to time at the photograph of Bellward which he had picked up from the table. He had an intuition that Bellward behaved and spoke just as the man before him.

Then, at Crook's suggestion, Desmond assumed the role of Bellward. The expert interrupted him continually.

"The hands, Major, the hands, you must not keep them down at your sides. That is military! You must move them when you speak! So and so!"

Or again:

"You speak too fast. Too... too youthfully, if you understand me, sir. You are a man of middle age. Life has no further secrets for you. You are poised and getting a trifle ponderous. Now try again!"

But the train was slackening speed. They were running between black masses of squalid houses. As the special thumped over the bridge across the river, Mr. Crook gathered up his paints and brushes and photographs and arranged them neatly in his black tin box.

To Desmond he said:

"I shall be coming along to give you some more lessons very soon, Major. I wish you could see Bellward for yourself: you are very apt at this game, and it would save us much time. But I fear that's impossible."

Even before the special had drawn up alongside the platform at Cannon Street, Crook and Matthews swung themselves out and disappeared. When the train stopped, a young man in a bowler hat presented himself at the door of the Pullman.

"The car is there, Mr. Bellward, sir!" he said, helping Desmond to alight. Desmond, preparing to assume his new role, was about to leave the carriage when a sudden thought struck him. What about his uniform strewn about the compartment where he had changed? He ran back. The compartment was empty. Not a trace remained of the remarkable scenes of their night journey.

"This is for you," said the young man, handing Desmond a note as they walked down the platform.

Outside the station a motor-car with its noisy throbbing awoke the echoes of the darkened and empty courtyard. Desmond waited until he was being whirled over the smooth asphalt of the City streets before he opened the letter.

He found a note and a small key inside the envelope.

"On reaching the house to which you will be conveyed," the note said, "you will remain indoors until further orders. You can devote your time to studying the papers you will find in the desk beside the bed. For the present you need not fear detection as long as you do not leave the house." Then followed a few rough jottings obviously for his guidance.

"Housekeeper, Martha, half blind, stupid; odd man, John Hill, mostly invisible, no risk from either. You are confined to house with heavy chill. Do not go out until you get the word."

The last sentence was twice underlined.

The night was now pitch-dark. Heavy clouds had come up and obscured the stars and a drizzle of rain was falling. The car went forward at a good pace and Desmond, after one or two ineffectual attempts to make out where they were going, was lulled by the steady motion into a deep sleep. He was dreaming fitfully of the tossing Channel as he had seen it but a few hours before when he came to his senses with a start. He felt a cold draught of air on his face and his feet were dead with cold.

A figure stood at the open door of the car. It was the chauffeur.

"Here we are, sir," he said.

Desmond stiffly descended to the ground. It was so dark that he could distinguish nothing, but he felt the grit of gravel under his feet and he heard the melancholy gurgle of running water. He took a step forward and groped his way into a little porch smelling horribly of mustiness and damp. As he did so, he heard a whirr behind him and the car began to glide off. Desmond shouted after the chauffeur. Now that he stood on the very threshold of his adventure, he wanted to cling desperately to this last link with his old self. But the chauffeur did not or would not hear, and presently the sound of the engine died away, leaving Desmond to the darkness, the sad splashing of distant water and his own thoughts.

And then, for one brief moment, all his courage seemed to ooze out of him. If he had followed his instinct, he would have turned and fled into the night, away from that damp and silent house, away from the ceaseless splashing of waters, back to the warmth and lights of civilization. But his sense of humor, which is very often better than courage, came to his rescue.

"I suppose I ought to be in the devil of a rage," he said to himself, "being kept waiting like this outside my own house! Where the deuce is my housekeeper? By Gad, I'll ring the place down!"

The conceit amused him, and he advanced further into the musty porch hoping to find a bell. But as he did so his ear caught the distant sound of shuffling feet. The shuffle of feet drew nearer and presently a beam of light shone out from under the door. A quavering voice called out:

"Here I am, Mr. Bellward, here I am, sir!"

Then a bolt was drawn back, a key turned, and the door swung slowly back, revealing an old woman, swathed in a long shawl and holding high in her hand a lamp as she peered out into the darkness.

"Good evening, Martha," said Desmond, and stepped into the house.

Save for Martha's lamp, the lobby was in darkness, but light was streaming into the hall from the half open door of a room leading off it at the far end. While Martha, wheezing asthmatically, bolted the front door, Desmond went towards the room where the light was and walked in.

It was a small sitting-room, lined with bookshelves, illuminated by an oil lamp which stood on a little table beside a chintz-covered settee which had been drawn up in front of the dying fire.

On the settee Nur-el-Din was lying asleep.



CHAPTER X. D. O. R. A. IS BAFFLED

When Barbara reached the Chief's ante-room she found it full of people. Mr. Marigold was there, chatting with Captain Strangwise who seemed to be just taking his leave; there was a short, fat, Jewish-looking man, very resplendently dressed with a large diamond pin in his cravat and a small, insignificant looking gentleman with a gray moustache and the red rosette of the Legion of Honor in his button-hole. Matthews came out of the Chief's room as Barbara entered the outer office.

"Miss Mackwayte," he said, "we are all so shocked and so very, sorry..."

"Mr. Matthews," she said hastily in a low voice, "never mind about that now. I must see the Chief at once. It is most urgent."

Matthews gesticulated with his arm round the room.

"All these people, excepting the officer there, are waiting to see him, Miss, and he's got a dinner engagement at eight..."

"It is urgent, Mr. Matthews, I tell you. If you won't take my name in, I shall go in myself!"

"Miss Mackwayte, I daren't interrupt him now. Do you know who's with him...?"

Strangwise crossed the room to where Barbara was standing.

"I can guess what brings you here, Miss Mackwayte," he said gently. "I hope you will allow me to express my condolences...?"

The girl shrank back, almost imperceptibly, yet Strangwise, whose eyes were fixed on her pale face, noticed the spontaneous recoil. The sunshine seemed to fade out of his debonair countenance, and for a moment Barbara Mackwayte saw Maurice Strangwise as very few people had ever seen him, stern and cold and hard, without a vestige of his constant smile. But the shadow lifted as quickly as it had fallen. His face had resumed its habitually engaging expression as he murmured:

"Believe me, I am truly sorry for you!"

"Thank you, thank you!" Barbara said hastily and brushed past him. She walked straight across the room to the door of the Chief's room, turned the handle and walked in.

The room was in darkness save for an electric reading lamp on the desk which threw a beam of light on the faces of two men thrust close together in eager conversation. One was the Chief, the other a face that Barbara knew well from the illustrated papers.

At the sound of the door opening, the Chief sprang to his feet.

"Oh, it's Miss Mackwayte," he said, and added something in a low voice to the other man who had risen to his feet. "My dear," he continued aloud to Barbara, "I will see you immediately; we must not be disturbed now. Matthews should have told you."

"Chief," cried Barbara, her hands clasped convulsively together, "you must hear me now. What I have to say cannot wait. Oh, you must hear me!"

The Chief looked as embarrassed as a man usually looks when he is appealed to in a busy moment by an extremely attractive girl.

"Miss Mackwayte," he said firmly but with great courtesy, "you must wait outside. I know how unnerved you are by all that you have gone through, but I am engaged just now. I shall be free presently."

"It is about my father, Chief," Barbara said in a trembling voice, "I have found out what they came to get!"

"Ah!" said the Chief and the other man simultaneously.

"We had better hear what she has to say!" said the other man, "but won't you introduce me first?"

"This is Sir Bristowe Marr, the First Sea Lord," said the Chief, bringing up a chair for Barbara, "Miss Mackwayte, my secretary, Admiral!"

Then in a low impassioned voice Barbara told her tale of the package entrusted to her by Nur-el-Din and its disappearance from her bedroom on the night of the murder. As she proceeded a deep furrow appeared between the Chief's bushy eyebrows and he stared absently at the blotting-pad in front of him. When the girl had finished her story, the Chief said:

"Lambelet ought to hear this, sir: he's the head of the French Intelligence, you know. He's outside now. Shall we have him in? Miss Mackwayte shall tell her story, and you can then hear what Lambelet has to say about this versatile young dancer."

Without waiting for further permission, he pressed a bell on the desk and presently Matthews ushered in the small man with the Legion of Honor whom Barbara had seen in the ante-room.

The Chief introduced the Frenchman and in a few words explained the situation to him. Then he turned to Barbara:

"Colonel Lambelet speaks English perfectly," he said, "so fire away and don't be nervous!"

When she had finished, the Chief said, addressing Lambelet:

"What do you make of it, Colonel?"

The little Frenchman made an expressive gesture.

"Madame has become aware of the interest you have been taking in her movements, mon cher. She seized the opportunity of this meeting with the daughter of her old friend to get rid of something compromising, a code or something of the kind, qui sait? Perhaps this robbery and its attendant murder was only an elaborate device to pass on some particularly important report of the movements of your ships... qui sait?"

"Then you are convinced in your own mind, Colonel, that this woman is a spy?" The clear-cut voice of the First Sea Lord rang out of the darkness of the room outside the circle of light on the desk.

"Mais certainement!" replied the Frenchman quietly. "Listen and you shall hear! By birth she is a Pole, from Warsaw, of good, perhaps, even, of noble family. I cannot tell you, for her real name we have not been able to ascertain... parbleu, it is impossible, with the Boches at Warsaw, hein? We know, however, that at a very early age, under the name of la petite Marcelle, she was a member of a troupe of acrobats who called themselves The Seven Duponts. With this troupe she toured all over Europe. Bien! About ten years ago, she went out to New York as a singer, under the name of Marcelle Blondinet, and appeared at various second-class theatres in the United States and Canada. Then we lose track of her for some years until 1913, the year before the war, when the famous Oriental dancer, Nur-el-Din, who has made a grand success by the splendor of her dresses in America and Canada, appears at Brussels, scores a triumph and buys a fine mansion in the outskirts of the capital. She produces herself at Paris, Bordeaux, Lyons, Marseilles, Madrid, Milan and Rome, but her home in Brussels, always she returns there, your understand me, hein? La petite Marcelle of The Seven Duponts, Marcelle Blondinet of the cafe chantant, has blossomed out into a star of the first importance."

The Colonel paused and cleared his throat.

"To buy a mansion in Brussels, to run a large and splendid troupe, requires money. It is the men who pay for these things, you would say. Quite right, but listen who were the friends of Madame Nur-el-Din. Bischoffsberg, the German millionaire of Antwerp, von Wurzburg, of Berne... ah ha! you know that gentleman, mon cher?" he turned, chuckling, to the Chief who nodded his acquiescence; "Prince Meddelin of the German Embassy in Paris and administrator of the German Secret Service funds in France, and so on and so on. I will not fatigue you with the list. The direct evidence is coming now.

"When the war broke out in August, 1914, Madame, after finishing her summer season in Brussels, was resting in her Brussels mansion. What becomes of her? She vanishes."

"She told Samuel, the fellow who runs the Palaceum, that she escaped from Brussels!" interposed the Chief.

The Frenchman threw his hands above his head.

"Escaped, escaped? Ah, oui, par exemple, in a German Staff car. As I have told my colleague here," he went on, addressing the Admiral, "she escaped to Metz, the headquarters of the Army Group commanded by the... the... how do you say? the Prince Imperial?"

"The Crown Prince," rectified the Chief.

"Ah, oui,—the Crown Prince. Messieurs, we have absolute testimony that this woman lived for nearly two years either in Metz or Berlin, and further, that at Metz, the Crown Prince was a constant visitor at her house. She was one of the ladies who nearly precipitated a definite rupture between the Crown Prince and his wife. Mon Admiral," he went on, addressing the First Sea Lord again, "that this woman should be at large is a direct menace to the security of this country and of mine. It is only this morning that I at length received from Paris the facts which I have just laid before you. It is for you to order your action accordingly!"

The little Frenchman folded his arms pompously and gazed at the ceiling.

"How does she explain her movements prior to her coming to this country" the First Sea Lord asked the Chief.

For an answer the Chief pressed the bell.

"Samuel, who engaged her, is outside. You shall hear her story from him," he said.

Samuel entered, exuding business acumen, prosperity, geniality. He nodded brightly to the Chief and stood expectant.

"Ah, Mr. Samuel," said the Chief, "I wanted to see you about Nur-el-Din. You remember our former conversation on the subject. Where did she say she went to when she escaped to Brussels?"

"First to Ostend," replied the music-hall proprietor, "and then, when the general exodus took place from there, to her mother's country place near Lyons, a village called Sermoise-aux-Roses."

"And what did she say her mother's name was?"

"Madame Blondinet, sir!"

The Frenchman rapped smartly on a little pocketbook which he had produced and now held open in his hand.

"There, is a Madame Blondinet who has a large farm near Sermoise-aux-Roses," he said, "and she has a daughter called Marcelle, who went to America."

"Why then...?" began the First Sea Lord.

"Attendez un instant!"

The Colonel held up a plump hand.

"Unfortunately for Madame Nur-el-Din, this Marcelle Blondinet spent the whole of her childhood, in fact, the whole of her life until she was nineteen years of age, on her mother's farm at a time when this Marcelle Blondinet was touring Europe with The Seven Duponts. The evidence is absolute. Mademoiselle here heard the dancer herself confirm it last night!"

"Thank you, Mr. Samuel," said the Chief, "we shan't require you any more. But I'm afraid your Nur-el-Din will have to break her contract with you."

"She's done that already, sir!" said Samuel ruefully.

The Chief sprang to his feet excitedly.

"Broken it already?" he cried. "What do you mean? Explain yourself! Don't stand there staring at me!"

Mr. Samuel looked startled out of his life.

"There was a bit of a row between her and the stage manager last night about her keeping the stage waiting again," he said; "and after lunch today she rang up to say she would not appear at the Palaceum to-night or any more at all! It's very upsetting for us; and I don't mind telling you, gentlemen, that I've been to my solicitors about it..."

"And why the blazes didn't you come and tell me?" demanded the Chief furiously.

"Well, sir, I thought it was only a bit of pique on her part, and I hoped to be able to talk the lady round. I know what these stars are!"

"You've seen her then?" the Chief snapped out.

"No, I haven't!" Mr. Samuel lamented. "I've been twice to the Nineveh—that's where she's stopping—and each time she was out!"

The Chief dismissed him curtly.

When the door had closed behind him, the Chief said to the First Sea Lord:

"This is where D.O.R.A. steps in, I think, sir!"

"Decidedly!" replied the Admiral. "Will you take the necessary steps?"

The Chief nodded and pressed the bell. Matthews appeared.

"Anything from the Nineveh?" he asked.

"The lady has not returned, sir!"

"Anything from Gordon and Duff?"

"No, sir, nothing all day!"

The telephone on the desk whirred. The Chief lifted the receiver.

"Yes. Oh, it's you, Gordon? No, you can say it now: this is a private line."

He listened at the receiver for a couple of minutes. The room was very still.

"All right, come to the office at once!"

The Chief hung up the receiver and turned to the Admiral.

"She's given us the slip for the moment!" he said. "That was Gordon speaking. He and Duff have been shadowing our lady friend out of doors for days. She left the hotel on foot after lunch this afternoon with my two fellows in her wake. There was a bit of a crush on the pavement near Charing Cross and Duff was pushed into the roadway and run over by a motor-'bus. In the confusion Gordon lost the trail. He's wasted all this time trying to pick it up again instead of reporting to me at once."

"Zut!" cried the Frenchman.



CHAPTER XI. CREDENTIALS

The sight of Nur-el-Din filled Desmond with alarm. For a moment his mind was overshadowed by the dread of detection. He had forgotten all about Mr. Crook's handiwork in the train, and his immediate fear was that the dancer would awake and recognize him. But then he caught sight of his face in the mirror over the mantelpiece. The grave bearded man staring oddly at him out of the glass gave him a shock until he realized the metamorphosis that had taken place in his personality. The realization served instantly to still his apprehension.

Nur-el-Din lay on her side, one hand under her face which was turned away from the fire. She was wearing a big black musquash coat, and over her feet she had flung a tweed overcoat, apparently one of Mr. Bellward's from the hatstand in the hall. Her hat, a very dainty little affair of plain black velvet, was skewered with a couple of jewelled hatpins to the upholstery of the settee.

Desmond watched her for a moment. Her face looked drawn and tired now that her eyelids, with their long sweeping black lashes, were closed, shutting off the extraordinary luminosity of her eyes. As he stood silently contemplating her, she stirred and moaned in her sleep and muttered some word three or four times to herself. Desmond was conscious of a great feeling of compassion for this strangely beautiful creature. Knowing as he did of the hundred-eyed monster of the British Secret Service that was watching her, he found himself thinking how frail, how helpless, how unprotected she looked, lying there in the flickering light of the fire.

A step resounded behind him and old Martha shuffled into the room, carefully shading the lamp she still carried so that its rays should not fall on the face of the sleeper.

"I don't know as I've done right, sir," she mumbled, "letting the pore lady wait here for you like this, but I couldn't hardly help it, sir! She says as how she must see you, and seeing as how your first tellygram said you was coming at half-past nine, I lets her stop on!"

"When did she arrive" asked Desmond softly.

"About six o'clock," answered the old, woman. "Walked all the way up from Wentfield Station, too, sir, and that cold she was when she arrived here, fair blue with the cold she was, pore dear. D'reckly she open her lips, I sees she's a furrin' lady, sir. She asks after you and I tells her as how you are away and won't be back till this evening. 'Oh!' she says, I then I wait!' And in she comes without so much as with your leave or by your leave. She told me as how you knew her, sir, and were expecting to see her, most important, she said it was, so I hots her up a bit o' dinner. I hopes as how I didn't do wrong, Mr. Bellward, sir!"

"Oh, no, Martha, not at all!" Desmond replied—at random. He was sorely perplexed as to his next move. Obviously the girl could not stay in the house. What on earth did she want with him? And could he, at any rate, get at the desk and read the papers of which the note spoke and which, he did not doubt, were the dossier of the Bellward case, before she awoke? They might, at least, throw some light on his relations with the dancer.

"She had her dinner here by the fire," old Martha resumed her narrative, "and about a quarter past nine comes your second tellygram, sir, saying as how you could not arrive till five o'clock in the morning."

Desmond glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. The hands pointed to a quarter past five! He had lost all count of the time in his peregrinations of the night.

"I comes in here and tells the young lady as how you wouldn't be back last night, sir," the old woman continued, "and she says, 'Oh,' she says, 'then, where shall I go?' she says. 'Why don't you go home, my dear?' says I, 'and pop round and see the master in the morning,' I says, thinking the pore young lady lives about here. And then she tells me as how she come all the way from Lunnon and walked up from the station. As well you know, sir, the last train up leaves Wentfield Station at five minutes to nine, and so the pore young lady couldn't get back that night. So here she had to stop. I got the spare room ready for her and lit a nice fire and all, but she wouldn't go to bed not until she had seen you. I do hope as how I've not done wrong, sir. I says to Mr. Hill, I says..."

Desmond held up his hand to restrain her toothless babble. Nur-el-Din had stirred and was sitting up, rubbing her eyes. Then she caught sight of Desmond and scrambled rather unsteadily to her feet.

"Monsieur Bellward?" she said in French, "oh, how glad I am to see you!"

"All right, Martha," said Desmond, "see that the spare room is ready for this lady, and don't go to bed just yet. I shall want you to take this lady to her room."

The old woman hobbled away, leaving the two alone. As soon as the door had closed behind her, Nur-el-Din exclaimed:

"You know me; hein!"

Desmond bowed in the most correct Continental manner.

"Who does not know the charming Nur-el-Din?" he replied.

"No!" Nur-el-Din commanded with flashing eyes, "no, not that name! I am Madame Le Bon, you, understand, a Belgian refugee, from Termonde!"

Rather taken aback by her imperious manner, Desmond bowed again but said nothing.

"I received your letter," the dancer resumed, "but I did not answer it as I did not require your assistance. But now I wish your help. It is unfortunate that you were absent from home at the very time I counted upon your aid."

She flashed a glance at him as though awaiting an apology.

"I am extremely sorry," said Desmond, "if I had but known..."

Nur-el-Din nodded carelessly.

"I wish to pass the night here," she went on, "in fact, I may be here for several days. They are becoming inconvenient in London, you understand."

"But the theatre, your professional engagements?"

"Bah, I have left the theatre. I have had enough of these stupid English people... they know nothing of art!"

Desmond reflected a moment. Nur-el-Din's manner was most perplexing. What on earth could induce her to adopt this tone of condescension towards him? It nettled him. He resolved to try and find out on what it was based.

"I am only too happy to be of assistance to you," he said, "especially in view of the letter of introduction you sent me, but I must tell you plainly that what you ask is impossible."

"Impossible?" repeated Nur-el-Din, stamping her feet. "Impossible? Do you know what you are saying?"

"Perfectly," replied Desmond negligently. "Obviously, you must stay here for the rest of the night since you cannot return to London until the trains start running, but to stay here indefinitely as you propose to do is out of the question. People would talk!"

"Then it is your business to see that they don't!"

"Your letter of introduction came from one whom I am always anxious to oblige," Desmond went on. "But the service he is authorized to claim from me does not entitle him to jeopardize my other activities."

He drew a breath. It was a long shot. Would it draw her?

It did. Nur-el-Din fumbled in her bag, produced a leather pocket-book and from it produced a slip of paper folded in two.

"Read that!" she cried, "and then you shall apologize!"

Desmond took the paper. It was a sheet torn from a book of German military field messages. "Meldedienst" (Message Service) was printed in German at the top and there were blanks to be filled in for the date, hour and place, and at the bottom a printed form of acknowledgment for the recipient to sign.

In a large ostentatious, upright German handwriting was written what follows:

"To All Whom it May Concern.

"The lady who is the bearer of this, whose description is set out overleaf, is entitled to the full respect and assistance of the German forces on land and sea and in the air, wherever it may be. Her person and property are inviolate.

"Given At Our Headquarters at Metz "Friedrich Wilhelm "Kronprinz des "Deutschen Reiches."

Across the signature was the impress of a green stamp, lozenge-shaped, inscribed "Headquarters of the Fifth Army, General Staff, 21st September, 1914."

On the back of the slip was a detailed description of Nur-el-Din.

Desmond bowed and handed the paper back to its owner.

"Madame must accept my humble excuses," he murmured, hardly knowing what he was saying, so great was his surprise, "my house and services are at Madame's disposal!"

"The other letter was from Count Plettenbach, the Prince's A.D.C., whom I think you know!" added the dancer in a mollified voice as she replaced the slip of paper in its pocketbook and stowed it away in her hand-bag. Then, looking up archly at Desmond, she said:

"Am I so distasteful, then, to have in your house?"

She made a charming picture. Her heavy fur coat had fallen open, disclosing her full round throat, very brown against the V-shaped opening of her white silk blouse. Her mouth was a perfect cupid's bow, the upper lip slightly drawn up over her dazzlingly white teeth. Before Desmond could answer her question, if answer were needed, her mood had swiftly changed again. She put her hand out, a little brown hand, and laying it on his shoulder, looked up appealingly into his eyes.

"You will protect me," she said in a low voice, "I cannot bear this hunted life. From this side, from that, they, are closing in on me, and I am frightened, so very frightened. Promise you will keep me from harm!"

Desmond gazed down into her warm, expressive eyes helplessly. What she asked was impossible, he knew, but he was a soldier, not a policeman, he told himself, and under his breath he cursed the Chief for landing him in such a predicament. To Nur-el-Din he said gently:

"Tell me what has happened to frighten you. Who is hunting you? Is it the police?"

She withdrew her hand with a gesture of contempt.

"Bah!" she said bitterly. "I am not afraid of the police."

Then she sank into a reverie, her gaze fixed on the dying embers of the fire.

"All my life has been a struggle," she went on, after a moment, "first with hunger, then with men, then the police. I am used to a hard life. No, it is not the police!"

"Who is it, then" asked Desmond, completely nonplused.

Nur-el-Din let her eyes rest on his face for a moment.

"You have honest eyes," she said, "your eyes are not German... pardon me, I would not insult your race... I mean they are different from the rest of you. One day, perhaps, those eyes of yours may persuade me to answer your question. But I don't know you well enough yet!"

She broke off abruptly, shaking her head.

"I am tired," she sighed and all her haughty manner returned, "let the old woman show me to my room. I will take dejeuner with you at one o'clock."

Desmond bowed and stepping out into the hall, called the housekeeper. Old Martha shuffled off with the girl, leaving Desmond staring with vacant eyes into the fire. He was conscious of a feeling of exultation, despite his utter weariness and craving for sleep. This girl, with her queenly ways, her swiftly changing moods, her broad gusts of passion, interested him enormously. If she were the quarry, why, then, the chase were worth while! But the end? For a brief moment, he had a vision of that frail, clinging figure swaying up against some blank wall before a file of levelled rifles.

Then again he seemed to see old Mackwayte lying dead on the landing of the house at Seven Kings. Had this frail girl done this unspeakable deed? To send her to the gallows or before a firing-squad—was this to be the end of his mission? And the still, small voice of conscience answered: "Yes! that is what you have come here to do!"

Old Martha came shuffling down the staircase. Desmond called to her, remembering that he did not yet know where his bedroom was.

"Will you light me up to my room, Martha?" he said, "I want to be sure that the sheets are not damp!"

So saying he extinguished the lamp on the table and followed the old woman upstairs.



CHAPTER XII. AT THE MILL HOUSE

Clad in a suit of Mr. Basil Bellward's pyjamas of elaborate blue-flowered silk, Desmond lay propped up in bed in Mr. Bellward's luxuriously fitted bedroom, sipping his morning coffee, and studying with absorbed interest a sheet of blue foolscap. A number of papers lay strewn about the eiderdown quilt. At the head of the bed a handsome Sheraton bureau stood open.

As the French say, Mr. Bellward had refused himself nothing. His bedroom was most tastefully furnished. The furniture was mahogany, every piece carefully chosen, and the chintz of curtains and upholstery was bright and attractive. A most elaborate mahogany wardrobe was fitted into the wall, and Desmond, investigating it, had found it to contain a very large assortment of clothes of every description, all new or nearly so, and bearing the name of a famous tailor of Cork Street. Folding doors, resembling a cupboard, disclosed, when open, a marble basin with hot water laid on, while a curtained door in the corner of the room gave access to a white tiled bathroom. Mr. Bellward, Desmond had reflected after his tour of the room on his arrival, evidently laid weight on his personal comfort; for the contrast between the cheerful comfort of his bedroom and the musty gloom of the rooms downstairs was very marked.

A bright log fire hissed on the open hearth and the room was pleasantly warm. Old Martha's coffee was excellent, and Desmond, very snug in Mr. Bellward's comfortable bed, noted with regret that the clock on the mantel-shelf marked a quarter to twelve. But then he thought of the tete-a-tete luncheon that awaited him at one o'clock and his face cleared. He didn't mind getting up so much after all.

He fell again to the perusal of the documents which he had found, as indicated in the note from headquarters, in the desk by the bed. They were enclosed in two envelopes, one large, the other small, both without any superscription. The large envelope enclosed Mr. Bellward's dossier which consisted of a fairly detailed account of his private life, movements, habits and friends, and an account of his arrest. The small envelope contained Desmond's eagerly expected orders.

Desmond examined the papers in the large envelope first. From them he ascertained that the house in which he found himself was called The Mill House, and was situated two and a half miles from the station of Wentfield on the Great Eastern Railway in Essex. Mr. Bellward had taken the place some eight years before, having moved there from the Surrey hills, but had been wont to spend not more than two months in the year there. For the rest of the time he traveled abroad, usually passing the winter months on the Riviera, and the spring in Switzerland or Italy. The war had brought about a change in his habits, and Harrogate, Buxton and Bath had taken the place of the Continental resorts which he had frequented in peace time.

When in residence at The Mill House, Mr. Bellward had gone up to London nearly every morning, either walking or going by motor-cycle to the station, and not returning until dinner-time in the evening. Sometimes he passed the night in London, and on such occasions slept at a small hotel in Jermyn Street. His dossier included, a long and carefully compiled list of the people he knew in London, mostly men of the rich business set, stockbrokers, manufacturers, solicitors, and the like. Against every name was set a note of the exact degree of intimacy existing between Bellward and the man in question, and any other information that might serve Bellward's impersonator in good stead. Desmond laid this list aside for the moment, intending to study it more closely at his leisure.

Of intercourse with his neighbors in, the country, Mr. Bellward apparently had none. The Mill House stood in a lonely part of the country, remote from the more thickly populated centres of Brentwood and Romford, on the edge of a wide tract of inhospitable marshland, known as Morstead Fen, intersected by those wide deep ditches which in this part of the world are known as dykes. At this stage in the report there was a note to the effect that the rector of Wentfield had called twice at The Mill House but had not found Mr. Bellward at home, and that his visits had not been returned. There were also some opinions apparently culled locally regarding the tenant of the Mill House, set out something in this wise:—

"Landlord of the Red Lion, Wentfield: The gentleman has never been to the Red Lion, but sometimes orders my Ford car and always pays regularly.

"The Stationmaster at Wentfield: A gentleman who keeps himself to himself but very liberal with his money.

"Sir Marsham Dykes, of The Chase, Stanning: A damned unsociable churlish fellow.

"Mr. Tracy Wentfield, of the Channings, Home Green: A very rude man. He slammed the front door of the house in my face when I went to ask him for a contribution to our Cottage Hospital. It is not my habit to repeat idle gossip, but they do say he is a heavy drinker."

There was a lot more of this sort of thing, and Desmond turned from it with a smile to take up the account of Bellward's arrest. It appeared that, about a fortnight before, on the eve of the departure for France of a very large draft of troops, a telegram was handed in at the East Strand telegraph office addressed to Bellward. This telegram ran thus:

"Bellward, Bellward Hotel, Jermyn Street. "Shipping to you Friday 22,000 please advise correspondents. "Mortimer."

The authorities were unable to deliver this telegram as no such an hotel as the Hotel Bellward was found to exist in Jermyn Street. An examination of the address showed clearly that the sender had absent mindedly repeated the addressee's name in writing the name of the hotel. An advice was therefore addressed to the sender, Mortimer, at the address he had given on the back of the form, according to the regulations, to inform him that his telegram had not been delivered. It was then discovered that the address given by Mortimer was fictitious.

Suspicion being thus aroused, the telegram was forwarded to the Postal Censor's department whence it reached the Intelligence Authorities who promptly spotted the connection between the wording of the telegram and the imminent departure of the drafts, more especially as the dates tallied. Thereupon, Mr. Bellward was hunted up and ultimately traced by his correspondence to The Mill House. He was not found there, but was eventually encountered at his London hotel, and requested to appear before the authorities with a view to throwing some light on Mortimer. Under cross-examination Bellward flatly denied any knowledge of Mortimer, and declared that a mistake had been made. He cited various well known city men to speak for his bona-fides and protested violently against the action of the authorities in doubting his word. It was ultimately elicited that Bellward was of German birth and had never been naturalized, and he was detained in custody while a search was made at The Mill House.

The search was conducted with great discretion, old Martha being got out of the way before the detectives arrived and a careful watch being kept to avoid any chance of interruption. The search had the most fruitful results. Hidden in a secret drawer of the Sheraton desk in Bellward's bedroom, was found a most elaborate analysis of the movements of the transports to France, extremely accurate and right up to date. There was absolutely no indication, however, as to whence Bellward received his reports, and how or to whom he forwarded them. It was surmised that Mortimer was his informant, but an exhaustive search of the post office files of telegrams despatched showed no trace of any other telegram from Mortimer to Bellward save the one in the possession of the authorities. As for Mortimer, he remained a complete enigma.

That, summarised, was the gist of the story of Bellward's arrest. The report laid great stress on the fact that no one outside half a dozen Intelligence men had any knowledge (a) of Bellward being an unnaturalized German, (b) of his arrest.

Desmond's orders, which he reserved to the last were short and to the point. They consisted of five numbered clauses.

"1. You will have a free hand. The surveillance of the house was withdrawn on your arrival and will not be renewed.

"2. You will not leave the house until further orders.

"3. You will keep careful note of any communication that may be made to you, whether verbal or in writing, of whatever nature it is. When you have anything to be forwarded, ring up 700 Slanning on the telephone and give Bellward's name. You will hand your report to the first person calling at the house thereafter asking for the letter for Mr. Elias.

"4. If help is urgently required, ring up 700 Stanning and ask for Mr. Elias. Assistance will be with you within 15 minutes after. This expedient must only be used in the last extremity.

"5. Memorize these documents and burn the lot before you leave the house."

"Handy fellow, Mr. Elias," was Desmond's commentary, as he sprang out of bed and made for the bathroom. At a quarter to one he was ready dressed, feeling very scratchy and uncomfortable about the beard which he had not dared to remove owing to Nur-el-Din's presence in the house. Before he left the bedroom, he paused a moment at the desk, the documents of the Bellward case in his hands. He had a singularly retentive memory, and he was loth to have these compromising papers in the house whilst Nur-el-Din was there. He took a quick decision and pitched the whole lot into the fire, retaining only the annotated list of Mr. Bellward's friends. This he placed in his pocket-book and, after watching the rest of the papers crumble away into ashes, went downstairs to lunch.

Nur-el-Din was in the drawing-room, a long room with two high windows which gave on a neglected looking garden. A foaming, churning brook wound its way through the garden, among stunted bushes and dripping willows, obviously the mill-race from which the house took its name. The drawing-room was a bare, inhospitable room, studded here and there with uncomfortable looking early Victorian armchairs swathed in dust-proof cloths. A fire was making an unsuccessful attempt to burn in the open grate.

Nur-el-Din turned as he entered the room. She was wearing a gray cloth tailor-made with a white silk, blouse and a short skirt showing a pair of very natty brown boots. By contrast with her ugly surroundings she looked fresh and dainty. Her eyes were bright and her face as smooth and unwrinkled as a child's.

"Bon jour," she cried gaily, "ah! but I am 'ungry! It is the air of the country! I love so the country!"

"I hope you slept well, Madame!" said Desmond solicitously, looking admiringly at her trim figure.

"Like a dead man," she replied with a little laugh, translating the French idiom. "Shall we make a leetle promenade after the dejeuner? And you shall show me your pretty English country, voulez-vous? You see, I am dressed for le footing!"

She lifted a little brown foot.

They had a delightful luncheon together. Old Martha, who proved to be quite a passable cook, waited on them. There was some excellent Burgundy and a carafe of old brandy with the coffee. Nur-el-Din was in her most gracious and captivating mood. She had dropped all her arrogance of their last interview and seemed to lay herself out to please. She had a keen sense of humor and entertained Desmond vastly by her anecdotes of her stage career, some not a little risque, but narrated with the greatest bon-homie.

But, strongly attracted as he was to the girl, Desmond did not let himself lose sight of his ultimate object. He let her run on as gaily as she might but steadily, relentlessly he swung the conversation round to her last engagement at the Palaceum. He wanted to see if she would make any reference to the murder at Seven Kings. If he could only bring in old Mackwayte's name, he knew that the dancer must allude to the tragedy.

Then the unexpected happened. The girl introduced the old comedian's name herself.

"The only pleasant memory I shall preserve of the Palaceum," she said in French, "is my meeting with an old comrade of my youth. Imagine, I had not seen him for nearly twenty years. Monsieur Mackwayte, his name is, we used to call him Monsieur Arthur in the old days when I was the child acrobat of the Dupont Troupe. Such a charming fellow; and not a bit changed! He was doing a deputy turn at the Palaceum on the last night I appeared there! And he introduced me to his daughter! Une belle Anglaise! I shall hope to see my old friend again when I go back to London!"

Desmond stared at her. If this were acting, the most hardened criminal could not have carried it off better. He searched the girl's face. It was frank and innocent. She ran on about Mackwayte in the old days, his kindliness to everyone, his pretty wife, without a shadow of an attempt to avoid an unpleasant topic. Desmond began to believe that not only did the girl have nothing to do with the tragedy but that actually she knew nothing about it.

"Did you see the newspapers yesterday?" he asked suddenly.

"My friend," said Nur-el-Din, shaking her curls at him. "I never read your English papers. There is nothing but the war in them. And this war!"

She gave a little shudder and was silent.

At this moment old Martha, who had left them over their coffee and cigarettes, came into the room.

"There's a gentleman called to see you, sir!" she said to Desmond.

Desmond started violently. He was scarcely used to his new role as yet.

"Who is it, Martha?" he said, mastering his agitation.

"Mr. Mortimer!" mumbled the old woman in her tired voice, "at least that's what he said his name was. The gentleman hadn't got a card!"

Nur-el-Din sprang up from her chair so vehemently that she upset her coffee.

"Don't let him come in!" she cried in French.

"Did you say I was in?" Desmond asked the old housekeeper, who was staring at the dancer.

"Why, yes, sir," the woman answered.

Desmond made a gesture of vexation.

"Where is this Mr. Mortimer?" he asked

"In the library, sir!"

"Tell him I will be with him at once."

Martha hobbled away and Desmond turned to the girl.

"You heard what my housekeeper said? The man is here. I shall have to see him."

Nur-el-Din, white to the lips, stood by the table, nervously twisting a little handkerchief.

"Non, non," she said rapidly, "you must not see him. He has come to find me. Ah! if he should find out what I have done... you will not give me up to this man?"

"You need not see him," Desmond expostulated gently, "I will say you are not here! Who is this Mortimer that he should seek to do you harm?"

"My friend," said the dancer sadly, "he is my evil genius. If I had dreamt that you knew him I would never have sought refuge in your house."

"But I've never set eyes on the man in my life!" exclaimed Desmond.

The dancer shook her head mournfully at him.

"Very few of you have, my friend," she replied, "but you are all under his orders, nest-ce pas?"

Desmond's heart leaped. Was Mortimer's the guiding hand of this network of conspiracy?

"I've trusted you, Monsieur," Nur-el-Din continued in a pleading voice, "you will respect the laws of hospitality, and hide me from this man. You will not give me up! Promise it, my friend?"

Desmond felt strangely moved. Was this a callous murderess, a hired spy, who, with her great eyes brimming over with tears, entreated his protection so simply, so appealingly?

"I promise I will not give you up to him, Mademoiselle!" he said and hated himself in the same breath for the part he had to play. Then he left her still standing by the table, lost in thought.

Desmond walked through the hall to the room in which he had found Nur-el-Din asleep on his arrival. His nerves were strung up tight for the impending encounter with this Mortimer, whoever, whatever he was. Desmond did not hesitate on the threshold of the room. He quietly opened the door and walked in.

A man in a black and white check suit with white gaiters stood on the hearthrug, his hands tucked behind his back. He had a curiously young-old appearance, such as is found in professors and scientists of a certain type. This suggestion was probably heightened by the very strong spectacles he wore, which magnified his eyes until they looked like large colored marbles. He had a heavy curling moustache resembling that affected by the late Lord Randolph Churchill. There was a good deal of mud on his boots, showing that he had come on foot.

The two men measured one another in a brief but courteous glance. Desmond wondered what on earth this man's profession was. He was quite unable to place him.

"Mr. Bellward?" said Mortimer, in a pleasant cultivated voice, "I am pleased to have this opportunity of meeting you personally."

Desmond bowed and muttered something conventional. Mortimer had put out his hand but Desmond could not nerve himself to take it. Instead he pushed forward a chair.

"Thanks," said Mortimer sitting down heavily, "I've had quite a walk across the fen. It's pleasant out but damp! I suppose you didn't get my letter?"

"Which letter was that" asked Desmond.

"Why the one asking you to let me know when you would be back so that we might meet at last!"

Desmond shook his head.

"No," he said, "I didn't get that one. It must have gone astray. As a matter of fact," he added, "I only got back this morning."

"Oh, well then, I am fortunate in my visit," said Mortimer. "Did everything go off all right?"

"Oh, yes," Desmond hastened to say, not knowing what he was talking about, "everything went off all right."

"I don't in the least grudge you the holiday," the other observed, "one should always be careful to pay the last respects to the dead. It makes a good impression. That is so important in some countries!"

He beamed at Desmond through his spectacles.

"Was there anything left in your absence?" he asked, "no, there would be nothing; I suppose!"

Desmond took a firm resolution. He must know what the man was driving at.

"I don't know what you mean," he said bluntly.

"God bless my soul!" ejaculated Mortimer turning round to stare at him through his grotesque glasses. And then he said very deliberately in German:

"War niemand da?"

Desmond stood up promptly.

"What do you want with me?" he asked quietly, "and why do you speak German in my house?" Mortimer gazed at him blankly.

"Excellence, most excellent," he gasped. "I love prudence. My friend, where are your eyes?"

He put a large, firm hand up and touched the upper edge of the left lapel of his jacket. Desmond followed his gesture with his eyes and saw the other's first finger resting on the shiny glass head of a black pin. Almost instinctively Desmond imitated the gesture. His fingers came into contact with a glassheaded pin similarly embedded in the upper edge of the lapel of his own coat.

Then he understood. This must be the distinguishing badge of this confraternity of spies. It was a clever idea, for the black pin was practically invisible, unless one looked for it, and even if seen, would give rise to no suspicions. It had obviously escaped the notice of the Chief and his merry men, and Desmond made a mental resolve to rub this omission well into his superior on the first opportunity. He felt he owed the Chief one.

Mr. Mortimer cleared his throat, as though to indicate the conclusion of the episode. Desmond sat down on the settee.

"Nothing came while I was away!" he said.

"Now that you are back," Mortimer remarked, polishing his glasses with a bandanna handkerchief, "the service will be resumed. I have come to see you, Mr. Bellward," he went on, turning to Desmond, "contrary to my usual practice, mainly because I wished to confirm by personal observation the very favorable opinion I had formed of your ability from our correspondence. You have already demonstrated your discretion to me. If you continue to show that your prudence is on a level with your zeal, believe I shall not prove myself ungrateful."

So saying he settled his glasses on his nose again.

The action woke Desmond from a brown study. During the operation of wiping his spectacles, Mr. Mortimer had given Desmond a glimpse of his eyes in their natural state without the protection of those distorting glasses. To his intense surprise Desmond had seen, instead of the weak, blinking eyes of extreme myopia, a pair of keen piercing eyes with the clear whites of perfect health. Those blue eyes, set rather close together, seemed dimly familiar. Someone, somewhere, had once looked at him like that.

"You are too kind," murmured Desmond, grappling for the thread of the conversation.

Mortimer did not apparently notice his absentmindedness.

"Everything has run smoothly," he resumed, "on the lines on which we have been working hitherto, but more important work lies before us. I have found it necessary to select a quiet rendezvous where I might have an opportunity of conferring in person with my associates. The first of these conferences will take place very shortly. I count upon your attendance, Bellward!"

"I shall not fail you," replied Desmond. "But where is this rendezvous of yours, might I ask?"

Mortimer shot a quick glance at him.

"You shall know in good time," he answered drily. Then he added:

"Do you mind if I have a few words with Nur-el-Din before I go!"

The unexpected question caught Desmond off his guard.

"Nur-el-Din?" he stammered feebly.

"She is staying with you, I believe," said Mortimer pleasantly.

Desmond shook his head.

"There must be some mistake," he averred stoutly, "of course I know who you mean, but I have never met the lady. She is not here. What led you to suppose she was?"

But even as he spoke, his eyes fell on a black object which lay near his arm stretched out along the back of the settee. It was a little velvet hat, skewered to the upholstery of the settee by a couple of jewelled hat-pins. A couple of gaudy cushions lay between it and Mortimer's range of vision from the chair in which the latter was sitting. If only Mortimer had not spotted it already!

Desmond's presence of mind did not desert him. On the pretext of settling himself more comfortably he edged up another cushion until it rested upon the other two, thus effectively screening the hat from Mortimer's view even when he should get up.

"I wish she were here," Desmond added, smiling, "one could not have a more delightful companion to share one's solitude, I imagine."

"The lady has disappeared from London under rather suspicious circumstances;" Mortimer said, letting his grotesque eyes rest for a moment on Desmond's face, "to be quite frank with you, my dear fellow, she has been indiscreet, and the police are after her."

"You don't say!" cried Desmond.

"Indeed, it is a fact," replied the other, "I wish she would take you as her model, my dear Bellward. You are the pattern of prudence, are you not?"

He paused perceptibly and Desmond held his breath.

"She has very few reputable friends," Mortimer continued presently, "under a cloud as she is, she could hardly frequent the company of her old associates, Mowbury and Lazarro and Mrs. Malplaquet, you doubtless know whom I mean. I know she has a very strong recommendation to you, so I naturally thought—well, no matter!"

He rose and extended his hand.

"Au revoir, Bellward," he said, "you shall hear from me very soon. You've got a snug little place here, I must say, and everything in charming taste. I like your pretty cushions."

The blood flew to Desmond's face and he bent down, on pretense of examining the cushions, to hide his confusion.

"They aren't bad," he said, "I got them at Harrod's!"

He accompanied Mortimer to the front door and watched him disappear down the short drive and turn out of the gate into the road. Then feeling strangely ill at ease, he went back to join Nur-el-Din in the dining-room. But only the housekeeper was there, clearing the table.

"If you're looking for the young lady, sir," said old Martha, "she's gone out!"

"Oh!" said Desmond, with a shade of disappointment in his voice, "will she be back for tea?"

"She's not coming back at all," answered the old woman, "she told me to tell you she could not stop, sir. And she wouldn't let me disturb you, neither, sir."

"But did she leave no note or anything for me?" asked Desmond.

"No, sir," answered old Martha as she folded up the cloth.

Gone! Desmond stared gloomily out at the sopping garden with an uneasy feeling that he had failed in his duty.



CHAPTER XIII. WHAT SHAKESPEARE'S COMEDIES REVEALED

In a very depressed frame of mind, Desmond turned into the library. As he crossed the hall, he noticed how cheerless the house was. Again there came to him that odor of mustiness—of all smells the most eerie and drear—which he had noticed on his arrival. Somehow, as long as Nur-el-Din had been there, he had not remarked the appalling loneliness of the place.

A big log fire was blazing cheerfully in the grate, throwing out a bright glow into the room which, despite the early hour, was already wreathed in shadows. Wearily Desmond pulled a big armchair up to the blaze and sat down. He told himself that he must devote every minute of his spare time to going over in his mind the particulars he had memorized of Mr. Bellward's habits and acquaintanceships. He took the list of Bellward's friends from his pocket-book.

But this afternoon he found it difficult to concentrate his attention. His gaze kept wandering back to the fire, in whose glowing depths he fancied he could see a perfect oval face with pleading eyes and dazzling teeth looking appealingly at him.

Nur-el-Din! What an entrancing creature she was! What passion lurked in those black eyes of hers, in her moods, swiftly changing from gusts of fierce imperiousness to gentle airs of feminine charm! What a frail little thing she was to have fought her way alone up the ladder from the lowest rung to the very top! She must have character and grit, Desmond decided, for he was a young man who adored efficiency: to him efficiency spelled success.

But a spy needs grit, he reflected, and Nur-el-Din had many qualities which would enable her to win the confidence of men. Hadn't she half-captivated him, the would-be spy-catcher, already?

Desmond laughed ruefully to himself. Indeed, he mused, things looked that way. What would the Chief say if he could see his prize young man, his white-headed boy, sitting sentimentalizing by the fire over a woman who was, by her own confession, practically an accredited German agent? Desmond thrust his chin out and shook himself together. He would put the feminine side of Nur-el-Din out of his head. He must think of her henceforth only as a member of the band that was spotting targets for those sneaking, callous brutes of U-boat commanders.

He went back to the study of the list of Mr. Bellward's friends. But he found it impossible to focus his mind upon it. Do what he would, he could not rid himself of the sensation that he had failed at the very outset of his mission. He was, indeed, he told himself, the veriest tyro at the game. Here he had had under his hand in turn Nur-el-Din and Mortimer (who, he made no doubt, was the leader of the gang which was so sorely troubling the Chief), and he had let both get away without eliciting from either even as much as their address. By the use of a little tact, he had counted on penetrating something of the mystery enveloping the dancer and her relationship with the gang; for he thought he divined that Nur-el-Din was inclined to make him her confidant. With the information thus procured, he had hoped to get on to the track of the leader of the band.