"If I had known you wanted to use the instrument, my dear fellow," Mortimer continued in his bland voice, "I should certainly have waited until you had done your business!"

"Pray don't mention it," replied Desmond, "you do well to be prudent, Mr. Mortimer!"

Mortimer shot a sudden glance at him. Desmond met it with a frank, easy smile.

"I'm a devil for prudence myself!" he observed brightly.



CHAPTER XVIII. THE GATHERING OF THE SPIES

Action, or the promise of action, always acted on Desmond Okewood like a nerve tonic. His visit to the inn, followed by the fencing with Mortimer at dinner, had galvanized his nerves jaded with the inaction of the preceding days. He averted his eyes from the future, he put the past resolutely away. He bent his whole attention on the problem immediately before him—how to carry off the role of Bellward in front of four strangers, one of whom, at least, he thought, must know the man he was impersonating; how to extract as much information as possible about the gang and its organization before uncovering his hand; finally, how to overpower the four men and the one woman when the moment had come to strike.

Mortimer and he were in the library. By Desmond's direction old Martha had put out two bridge tables and cards. A tantalus stand with siphons and glasses, an assortment of different colored liqueurs in handsome cut-glass carafes and some plates of sandwiches stood on a side-table. At Mortimer's suggestion Desmond had told the housekeeper that, once the guests had arrived, she might go to bed.

The library was very still. There was no sound except for the solemn ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece or the occasional rustle of the evening paper in Mortimer's hand as he stood in front of the fire. Desmond was sitting on the settee, tranquilly smoking, studying Mortimer and thinking out the problem before him.

He measured Mortimer with his eye. The latter was a bigger man than Desmond in every way and Desmond suspected that he was even stronger than he looked. Desmond wondered whether he should try and overpower him then and there. The other was almost certain to carry a revolver, he thought, while he was unarmed. Failure, he knew, would ruin everything. The gang would disperse to the four winds of heaven while as for Mr. Bellward—well, he would certainly be "for it," as the soldiers say.

No, he must hold his hand until the meeting had taken place. This was the first conference that Mortimer had summoned, and Desmond intended to see that it should be the last. But first he meant to find out all there was to know about the working of the gang.

He resolved to wait and see what the evening would bring forth. The telephone was "a washout": the motor-cycle was now his only chance to summon aid for he knew it was hopeless to think of tackling single-handed odds of four to one (to say nothing of the lady in the case). It must be his business to make an opportunity to slip away on the motor-bike to Stanning. Ten minutes to get there, five minutes to deliver his message at the police station (if the Chief's people made their headquarters there), and ten minutes to get back if they had a car. Could he leave the meeting for 25 minutes without arousing suspicions? He doubted it; but it must be. There was no other way. And then with a shock that made him cold with fear he remembered Mortimer's motor-car.

If, during his absence, anything occurred to arouse their suspicions, the whole crowd could pile into the car and be away long before Desmond could be back with help. The fog had lifted and it was a clear night outside. The car would have to be got rid of before he left the house, that was all about it. But how? A means to that end must also be discovered as the evening progressed. By the way, what had Mortimer done with his car?

A very faint throbbing somewhere outside answered Desmond's unspoken question.

Mortimer flung aside his paper.

"Isn't that a car?" he asked, "that'll be they. I sent Max to Wentfield station to meet our friends!"

There was the sound of voices, of bustle in the hall. Then the door opened and a man came in. Desmond had a brief moment of acute suspense. Was he supposed to know him?

He was a short, ugly fellow with immensely broad shoulders, a heavy puffy face, a gross, broad nose, and a tooth-brush moustache. He might have been a butcher to look at. In the top edge of his coat lapel, he wore a small black pin with a glass head.

"Well, Max," said Mortimer. "Have you brought them all?"

The man was mustering Desmond with a suspicious, unfriendly stare.

"My friend, Bellward!" said Mortimer, clapping Desmond on the shoulder. "You've heard of Bellward, Max!"

And to Desmond's surprise he made some passes in the air.

The man's mien underwent a curious change. He became cringing; almost overawed.

"Reelly," he grunted, "reelly now! You don't siy! Glad to know yer, mister, I'm shore!"

He spoke with a vile snuffing cockney accent, and thrust out his hand to Desmond. Then he added to Mortimer:

"There's three on 'em. That's the count, ain't it? I lef' the car outside on the drive!"

At this moment two more of the guests entered: One was a tall, emaciated looking man of about fifty who seemed to be in the last stages of consumption; the other a slightly built young fellow with a shock of black hair brushed back and an olive complexion. He wore pince-nez and looked like a Russian revolutionary. They, too, wore the badge of the brotherhood—the black pin in the coat lapel.

"Goot efening, Mr. Mortimer," said the tall man in a guttural voice, "this is Behrend"—he indicated the young man by his side—"you haft not meet him no?"

Then, leaving Behrend to shake hands with Mortimer, he literally rushed at Desmond and shook him by the hand exactly as though he were working a pump handle.

"My tear Pellward," he cried, "it is a hondred year since I haf see you, not? And how are the powers!"

He lowered his voice and gazed mysteriously at him.

Desmond, at a loss what to make of this extraordinary individual, answered at random:

"The powers? Still fighting, I believe!"

The tall man stared open-mouthed at him for a moment. Then, clapping his hands together, he burst into a high-pitched cackle of laughter.

"A joke," he yelled, "a mos' excellent joke! I must tell this to Minna. My vriend, I haf not mean the great Powers."

He looked dramatically about him, then whispered:

"I mean, the oggult!"

Desmond, who was now quite out of his depth, wagged his head solemnly at the other as though to indicate that, his occult powers were something not to be lightly mentioned. He had no fear of the tall man, at any rate. He placed him as a very ordinary German, a common type in the Fatherland, simple-minded, pedantic, inquisitive, and a prodigious bore withal but dangerous, for of this stuff German discipline kneads militarists.

But the door opened again to admit the last of the guests. A woman entered. Desmond was immediately struck by the contrast she presented to the others, Mortimer with his goggle eyes and untidy hair, Max, gross and bestial, Behrend, Oriental and shifty, and the scarecrow figure of the tall man.

Despite her age, which must have been nearly sixty, she still retained traces of beauty. Her features were very regular, and she had a pair of piercing black eyes of undimmed brightness. Her gray hair was tastefully arranged, and she wore a becoming black velvet gown with a black lace scarf thrown across the shoulders. A white silk rose was fastened to her bodice by a large black pin with a glass head.

Directly she appeared, the tall man shouted to her in German.

"Sag' mal, Minna..." he began.

Mortimer turned on him savagely.

"Hold your tongue, No. 13," he cried, "are you mad? What the devil do you mean by it? You know the rules!"

By way of reply, "No. 13" broke into a regular frenzy of coughing which left him gasping for breath.

"Pardon! I haf' forgot!" he wheezed out between the spasms.

The woman went over to Mortimer and put out tier gloved hand.

"I am Mrs. Malplaquet," she said in a pleasant voice. "And you are Mr. Mortimer, I think!"

Mortimer bowed low over her hand.

"Madame, I am charmed to meet one of whom I have heard nothing but praise," he said.

"Verry pretty!" replied Mrs. Malplaquet smiling. "They tell me you have a great way with the ladies, my dear sir!"

"But," she went on, "I am neglecting our host, my dear Mr. Bellward. How are you, my friend? How well you are looking... so young... so fresh! I declare you seem to have got five years younger!"

The keen black eyes searched Desmond's face. He felt horribly uncomfortable. The woman's eyes were like gimlets boring right into him. He suddenly felt that his disguise was a poor one. He remembered Crook's warning to be wary of women, and he inwardly quailed.

"I am so glad to meet you again!" he murmured. He didn't like Mrs. Malplaquet's eyes. They assorted strangely with the rest of her gentle and refined appearance. They were hard and cruel, those black eyes. Thy put him in mind of a snake.

"It is so long since I've seen you," she said, "that positively your voice seems to have changed."

"That's because I have a cold," said Desmond.

"Fiddlesticks!" retorted the lady, "the timbre is quite different! Bellward, I believe you're in love! Don't tell me you've been running after that hank of hair that Mortimer is so devoted to!" She glanced in Mortimer's direction, but that gentleman was engaged in earnest conversation with Behrend and the tall man.

"Whom do you meant" asked Desmond.

"Where are your eyes, man?" rapped out Mrs. Malplaquet. "The dancer woman, of course, Nur-el-what-do-you-call-it. There's the devil of a row brewing about the way our friend over there is neglecting us to run after the minx. They're getting sharp in this country, Bellward—I've lived here for forty years so I know what I'm talking about—and we can't afford to play any tricks. Mortimer will finish by bringing destruction on every one of us. And I shall tell him so tonight. And so will No. 13! And so will young Behrend! You ought to hear Behrend about it!"

Mrs. Malplaquet began to interest Desmond. She was obviously a woman of refinement, and he was surprised to find her in this odd company. By dint of careful questioning, he ascertained the fact that she lived in London, at a house on Campden Hill. She seemed to know a good many officers, particularly naval men.

"I've been keeping my eyes open as I promised, Bellward," she said, "and I believe I've got hold of a likely subject for you—a submarine commander he is, and very psychic. When will you come and meet him at my house?"

Mortimer's voice, rising above the buzz of conversation, checked his reply.

"If you will all sit down," he said, "we'll get down to business."

Despite all distractions, Desmond had been watching for this summons. He had marked down for himself a chair close to the door. For this he now made, after escorting Mrs. Malplaquet to the settee where she sat down beside Behrend. Max took the armchair on the left of the fireplace; while No. 13 perched himself grotesquely on a high music-stool, his long legs curled round the foot. Mortimer stood in his former position on the hearth, his back to the fire.

A very odd-looking band! Desmond commented to himself but he thought he could detect in each of the spies a certain ruthless fanaticism which experience taught him to respect as highly dangerous. And they all had hard eyes!

When they were seated, Mortimer said:

"About the 14th of this month the British Admiralty will begin the work of shipping to France ten divisions of American troops now training in this country. The most extraordinary precautions are being taken to complete this huge undertaking with success. It seems to me that the moment has come for us to demonstrate the efficiency of our new organization."

He looked round at his audience but no one said a word. Desmond felt very distinctly that there was a hostile atmosphere against Mortimer in that room.

"I asked you to come here to-night," Mortimer went on, "to discuss the plans for sending prompt and accurate information regarding the movements of these transports to the other side. I warn you that this time our mode of procedure will have to be radically different from the methods we have pursued on former occasions. To expend our energies in collecting information at half a dozen different ports of war will be waste of time. The direction of the whole of this enterprise lies in the hands of one man at the Admiralty."

Behrend, who had struck Desmond as a rather taciturn young man, shook his head dubiously.

"That makes things very difficult," he remarked.

"Wait," replied Mortimer. "I agree, it is very difficult, the more so as I have reason to believe that the authorities have discovered the existence of our organization."

Mrs. Malplaquet and Behrend turned to one another simultaneously.

"What did I say?" said Behrend.

"I told you so," said the lady.

"Therefore," Mortimer resumed, "our former activities on the coast will practically be paralyzed. We shall have to confine our operations to London while Max and Mr. Behrend here will be entrusted with the task of getting the news out to our submarines."

No. 13 broke in excitedly.

"Vork in London, vork in London!" he cried. "It is too dangerous, my vriend. Vot do I know of London? Portsmouth" (he called it Portsmouse), "Sout'ampton, the Isle of Vight... good... it is my province. But, London... it is senseless!"

Mortimer turned his gig-lamps on the interrupter.

"You will take your orders from me as before," he said quietly.

Behrend adjusted his pince-nez.

"No. 13 is perfectly right," he remarked, "he knows his territory, and he should be allowed to work there."

"You, too," Mortimer observed in the same calm tone as before, "will take your orders from me!"

With a quick gesture the young man dashed his long black hair out of his eyes.

"Maybe," he replied, "but only as long as I feel sure that your orders are worth following.

"Do you dare..." began Mortimer, shouting.

"... At present," the other continued, as though Mortimer had not spoken. "I don't feel at all sure that they are."

The atmosphere was getting a trifle heated, thought Desmond. If he judged Mortimer aright, he was not the man to let himself be dictated to by anybody. He was wondering how the scene would end when suddenly something caught his eye that took his mind right away from the events going forward in the room.

Opposite him, across the library, was a French window across which the curtains had been drawn. One of the curtains, however, had got looped up on a chair so that there was a gap at the bottom of the window showing the pane.

In this gap was a face pressed up against the glass. To his astonishment Desmond recognized the weather-beaten features of the odd man, Mr. John Hill. The face remained there only for a brief instant. The next moment it was gone and Desmond's attention was once more claimed by the progress of the conference.

"Do I understand that you refuse to serve under me any longer?" Mortimer was saying to Behrend, who had risen from the settee and stood facing him.

"As long as you continue to behave as you are doing at present," replied the other, "you may understand that!"

Mortimer made a quick dive for his pocket. In an instant Max had jumped at him and caught his arm.

"Don't be a fool!" he cried, "for Gawd's sake, put it away, carn't yer? D 'you want the 'ole ruddy plice abart our ears?"

"I'll have no disobedience of orders," roared Mortimer, struggling with the other. In his fist he had a big automatic pistol. It was a prodigious weapon, the largest pistol that Desmond had ever seen.

"He threatened him, he threatened him!" screamed No. 13 jumping about on his stool.

"Take it away from him, Max, for Heaven's sake!" cried the lady.

Everybody was talking at once. The noise was so loud that Desmond wondered whether old Martha would hear the din. He sat in his chair by the door, a silent witness of the scene. Then suddenly, at the height of the hubbub, he heard the faint humming of a motor-car. It lasted for perhaps thirty seconds, then gradually died away.

"What did it mean?" he asked himself. The only living being he knew of outside was John Hill, the odd man, whose face he had just seen; the only car was Mortimer's. Had the odd man gone off in Mortimer's car? He was thankful to note that, in the din, none save him seemed to have heard the car.

By this time Mortimer had put up his pistol and Mrs. Malplaquet was speaking. Her remarks were effective and very much to the point. She upbraided Mortimer with his long and mysterious absences which she attributed to his infatuation for Nur-el-Din and complained bitterly of the dancer's imprudence in consorting openly with notorious folk like Lazarro and Bryan Mowbury.

"I went to the girl myself," she said, "and begged her to be more circumspect. But Madame would not listen to advice; Madame was doubtless sure of her position with our revered leader, and thought she could reject the friendly counsel of one old enough to be her mother. Behrend and Max and No. 13 there—all of us—are absolutely agreed that we are not going on with this sort of thing any longer. If you are to remain in charge of our organization, Mr. Mortimer, we want to know where you are to be found and how you spend your time. In short, we want to be sure that you are not playing a game that most of us have at different times played on subordinate agents... I mean, that when the crisis comes, we fall into the trap and you walk away. You had better realize once and for all that we are too old hands for that sort of trick."

Here Max took up the thread. "Mrs. Malplaquet had put it very strite, so she 'ad, and wot he wanted to know was what Mortimer 'ad to siy?"

Mortimer was very suave in his reply; a bad sign, thought Desmond, for it indicated that he was not sure of himself. He was rather vague, spoke about a vitally important mission that he had had to fulfil but which he had now brought to a successful conclusion, so that he was at length free to devote his whole attention once more to the great task in hand.

Behrend brought his fist crashing down on the arm of the settee.

"Words, words," he cried, "it won't do for me. Isn't there a man in the room besides me? You, Bellward, or you, Max, or you, No.13? Haven't you got any guts any of You? Are you going to sit here and listen to the soft soap of a fellow who has probably sent better men than himself to their death with tripe of this kind? It may do for you, but by the Lord, it won't do for me!"

Mortimer cleared his throat uneasily.

"Our host is silent," said Mrs. Malplaquet, "what does Mr. Bellward think about it?"

Desmond spoke up promptly.

"I think it would be very interesting to hear something further about this mission of Mortimer's," he observed:

Mortimer cast him a glance of bitter malice.

"Well," he said, after a pause, "you force my hand. I shall tell you of this mission of mine and I shall show you the evidence, because it seems essential in the interests of our organization. But I assure you I shall not forget this want of confidence you have shown in me; and I shall see that you don't forget it, either!"

As he spoke, he glared fiercely at Desmond through his glasses.

"Let's hear about the precious mission," jeered Behrend, "let's see the evidence. The threats'll keep!"

Then Mortimer told them of how the Star of Poland came into Nur-el-Din's possession, and of the Crown Prince's embarrassment when the German authorities claimed it for the regalia of the new Kingdom of Poland.

"The Crown Prince," he said, "summoned me to him in person and gave me the order to make my way to England immediately and recover the gem at all costs and by any means. Did I whine or snivel about being sent to my death as some of you were doing just now? No! That is not the way of the Prussian Guard..."

"The Prussian Guard?" cried No. 13 in an awed voice. "Are you also of the Prussian Guard, comrade?"

He had risen from his seat and there was something almost of majesty about his thin, ungainly figure as he drew himself to his full height.

"Ay, comrade, I was," replied Mortimer.

"Then," cried No. 13, "you are..."

"No names, comrade," warned Mortimer, "no names, I beg!"

"No names, no names!" repeated the other and relapsed into his seat in a reverie.

"How I got to England," Mortimer continued, "matters nothing; how I fulfilled my mission is neither here nor there. But I recovered the gem and the proof..."

He thrust a hand into the inner pocket of his coat and plucked out a white paper package sealed up with broad red seals.

Desmond held his breath. It was the white paper package, exactly as Barbara had described.

"Look at it well, Behrend," said Mortimer, holding it up for the young man to see, "it cost me a man's life to get that. If it had sent twenty men to their death, I should have had it just the same!"

Mrs. Malplaquet clapped her hands, her eyes shining.

"Bravo, bravo!" she exclaimed, "that's the spirit! That's the way to talk, Mortimer!"

"Cut it out," snarled Behrend, "and let's see the goods!"

All had left their seats and were gathered in a group about Mortimer as he began to break the gleaming red wag seals. One by one he burst them, the white paper slipped off and disclosed... a box of cigarettes.

Mortimer stood gazing in stupefaction at the gaudy green and gold lettering of the box. Then, running his thumb-nail swiftly along the edge of the box, he broke the paper wrapping, the box burst open and a shower of cigarettes fell to the ground.

"So that's your Star of Poland, is it?" cried Behrend in a mocking voice.

"Wot 'ave yer done wiv' the sparklers, eh?" demanded Max, catching Mortimer roughly by the arm.

But Mortimer stood, aimlessly shaking the empty box in front of him, as though to convince himself that the gem was not there. Behrend fell on his knees and raked the pile of cigarettes over and over with his fingers.

"Nothing there!" he shouted angrily, springing to his feet. "It's all bluff! He's bluffing to the end! See, he doesn't even attempt to find his famous jewel! He knows it isn't there!"

But Mortimer paid no heed. He was staring straight in front of him, a strangely woe-begone figure with his thatch of untidy hair and round goggle eyes. Then the cigarette box fell to the floor with a crash as Mortimer's hands dropped, with, a hopeless gesture, to his sides.

"Barbara Mackwayte!" he whispered in a low voice, not seeming to realize that he was speaking aloud, "so that's what she wanted with Nur-el-Din!"

Desmond was standing at Mortimer's elbow and caught the whisper. As he heard Mortimer speak Barbara's name, he had a sudden premonition that his own unmasking was imminent, though he understood as little of the purport of the other's remark as of the pile of cigarettes lying on the carpet. As Mortimer turned to look at him, Desmond nerved himself to meet the latter's gaze. But Mortimer's face wore the look of a desperate man. There was no recognition in his eyes.

Not so with Desmond. Perhaps the bitterness of his disappointment had made Mortimer careless, perhaps the way in which he had pronounced Barbara's name struck a familiar chord in Desmond's memory. The unkempt hair brushed down across the forehead, the thick glasses, the heavy moustache still formed together an impenetrable mask which Desmond's eyes failed to pierce. But now he recalled the voice. As Mortimer looked at him, the truth dawned on Desmond and he knew that the man standing beside him was Maurice Strangwise, his comrade-in-arms in France.

At that very moment a loud crash rang through the room, a cold blast of damp air came rushing in and the lamp on the table flared up wildly, flickered an instant and went out, leaving the room in darkness save for the glow of the fire.

A deep voice cried:

"May I ask what you are all doing in my house?"

The secret door of the bookshelves had swung back and there, framed in the gaping void, Desmond saw the dark figure of a man.



CHAPTER XIX. THE UNINVITED GUEST

There are moments in life when the need for prompt action is so urgent that thought, decision and action must be as one operation of the brain. In the general consternation following on the dramatic appearance of this uninvited guest, Desmond had a brief respite in which to think over his position.

Should he make a dash for it or stay where he was and await developments?

Without a second's hesitation; he decided on the latter course. With the overpowering odds against him it was more than doubtful whether he could ever reach the library door. Besides, to go was to abandon absolutely all hope of capturing the gang; for his flight would warn the conspirators that the game was up. On the other hand, the new-comer might be an ally, perhaps an emissary of the Chief's. The strange behavior of the odd man had shown that something was afoot outside of which those in the library were unaware. Was the uninvited guest the deus ex machina who was to help him, Desmond, out of his present perilous fix?

Meanwhile the stranger had stepped into the room, drawing the secret door to behind him. Desmond heard his heavy step and the dull thud of the partition swinging into place. The sound seemed to break the spell that hung over the room.

Mortimer was the first to recover his presence of mind. Crying out to No. 13 to lock the door leading into the hall, he fumbled for a moment at the table. Desmond caught the noise of a match being scratched and the next moment the library was again bathed in the soft radiance of the lamp.

Picking up the light, Mortimer strode across to the stranger.

"What do you want here" he demanded fiercely, "and who the devil..."

He broke off without completing his sentence, drawing back in amazement. For the rays of the lamp fell upon the pale face of a stoutish, bearded man, veering towards middle age standing in front of Mortimer. And the face was the face of the stoutish, bearded man, veering towards middle age, who stood in the shadow a few paces behind Mortimer. Each man was a complete replica of the other, save that the face of the new arrival was thin and haggard with that yellowish tinge which comes from long confinement.

As Mortimer staggered back, the uninvited guest recoiled in his turn. He was staring fixedly across the room at his double who met his gaze firmly, erect, tense, silent. The others looked in sheer stupefaction from one to the other of the two Mr. Bellwards. For nearly a minute the only sound in the room was the deep ticking of the clock, counting away the seconds separating him from eternity, Desmond thought.

It was Mrs. Malplaquet who broke the silence. Suddenly her nerves snapped under the strain, and she screamed aloud.

"A—ah!" she cried, "look! There are two of them! No, no, it can't be!"

And she sank half fainting on the sofa.

Behrend whipped out a pistol from his hip pocket and thrust it in Mortimer's face.

"Is this another of your infernal surprise packets?" he demanded fiercely.

All the spies seemed on a sudden to be armed, Desmond noted, all, that is, save Mrs. Malplaquet who lay cowering on the settee. Mortimer had pulled out his super-Mauser; No. 13, who was guarding the door, had a revolver in his hand, and Behrend, as has been stated, was threatening Mortimer with his Browning.

Now Max advanced threateningly into the room, a long seaman's knife in his hand..

"Put that blarsted shooting-iron awiy!" he snarled at Mortimer, "and tell us wot's the little gime, will yer! Come on, egpline!"

With absolute self-possession Mortimer turned from the stranger to Desmond.

"I think it is up to the twins to explain," he said almost nonchalantly, "suppose we hear what this gentleman, who arrived so surprisingly through the book-shelves, has to say?"

Though threatened with danger from two sides, from the gang and possibly, as far as he knew, from the stranger, Mortimer was perfectly calm. Desmond never admired Maurice Strangwise more than in that moment. All eyes now turned questioningly towards the new arrival. As for Desmond he drew back as far as he dared into the shadow. He knew he was in the direst peril; but he was not afraid for himself. He was crushed to the ground by the sickening feeling that he was going to be beaten, that the gang were going to slip through his fingers after all... and he was powerless to prevent it.

He guessed at once what had happened. Bellward must have escaped from custody; for there was no disguise about this pale, flustered creature who had the cowed look of a hunted man in his eyes. He must have come to the Mill House to get his motorcycle; for he surely would have known that the villa would be the first place to which the police would follow him up.

Desmond saw a little ray of hope. If—it was a very big if—Bellward's flight were discovered promptly, the police might be expected to reach the Mill House very soon behind him. Bellward must have come straight there; for he had not even taken the very elementary precaution of shaving off his beard. That made Desmond think that he must have escaped some time that evening after the barbers' shops were closed.

With thumping heart, with bated breath, he waited for what was to come. In a very little while, he told himself, the truth must come out. His only chance was to try and bluff his way out of this appalling dilemma and above all, at all costs—this was the essential fact which, he told himself, he must keep steadfastly before his eyes—not to lose sight of Mortimer whatever happened.

Bellward's voice—and its tones showed Desmond what an accomplished mime Crook had been—broke the silence.

"I have nothing to explain," he said, turning from the sofa where he had been exchanging a few words in an undertone with Mrs. Malplaquet, "this is my house. That is sufficient explanation for my presence here, I imagine. But I confess I am curious to know what this person"—he indicated Desmond—"is doing in my clothes, if I mistake not, giving what I take to be a very successful impersonation of myself."

Then Desmond stepped boldly out of the shadow into the circle of light thrown by the lamp.

"I don't know what you all think," he said firmly, "but it seems to me singularly unwise for us to stand here gossiping when there is a stranger amongst us. I fail to understand the motive of this gentleman in breaking into my house by my private door, wearing my clothes, if I am to believe my eyes; but I clearly realize the danger of admitting strangers to a gathering of this kind."

"Quite right," agreed Behrend, nodding his head in assent.

"You have had one singular surprise to-night already," Desmond resumed, "in the matter of the jewel which our respected leader was about to show us: if you recollect, our friend was only prevented from giving us the explanation which he certainly owed us over his little hoax by the arrival, the most timely arrival, of his confederate..."

"Confederate?" shouted Mortimer, "what the devil do you mean by that?"

"Yes, confederate," Desmond repeated. "Max, Behrend, Mrs. Malplaquet, all of you, look at this wretched fellow"—he pointed a finger of scorn at Bellward—"trembling with fright at the role that has been thrust upon him, to force his way into our midst, to give his accomplice the tip to clear out before the police arrive."

"Stop!" exclaimed Mortimer, raising his pistol. Behrend caught his hand.

"We'll hear you in a minute!" he said.

"Let him finish!" said Mrs. Malplaquet, and there was a certain ominous quietness in her tone that startled Desmond.

As for Bellward, he remained silent, with arms folded, listening very intently.

"Doubtless, this double of mine," continued Desmond in a mocking voice, "is the bearer of the Star of Poland, the wonderful jewel which has required our beloved leader to devote so much of his time to a certain charming lady. Bah! are you going to let a man like this," and he pointed to Mortimer disdainfully with his hand, "a man who puts you in the fighting line while he amuses himself in the rear, are you going to let this false friend, this bogus spy, cheat you like this? My friends, my advice to you, if you don't want to have another and yet more disagreeable surprise, is to make sure that this impudent imposter is not here for the purpose of selling us all!"

He raised his voice until it rang through the room, at the same time looking round the group at the faces of the spies to see how his harangue had worked upon their feelings. Max and Behrend, he could see, were on his side; No. 13 was obviously, undecided; Mortimer and Bellward were, of course, against him; Mrs. Malplaquet sat with her hands in her lap, her eyes cast down, giving no sign.

"It's high time..." Mortimer began violently but Mrs. Malplaquet put up her hand and checked him.

"Better hear Bellward!" she said softly.

"I know nothing of what has been taking place in my absence," he said, "either here or outside. I only know that I escaped from the escort that was taking me back from Scotland Yard to Brixton Prison this evening and that the police are hard on my track. I have delayed too long as, it is. Every one of us in this room, with the exception of the traitor who is amongst us"—he pointed a finger in denunciation at Desmond—"is in the most imminent peril as long as we stay here. The rest of you can please yourselves. I'm off!"

He turned and pressed the spring. The book shelves swung open. Behrend sprang forward.

"Not so fast," he cried. "You don't leave this room until we know who you are!"

And he covered him with his pistol.

"Fool!" exclaimed Bellward who had stopped on the threshold of the secret door, "do you want to trap the lot of us! Tell him, Minna," he said to Mrs. Malplaquet, "and for Heaven's sake, let us be gone!"

Mrs. Malplaquet stood up.

"This is Basil Bellward," she said, "see, he's wearing the ring I gave him, a gold snake with emerald eyes! And now," she cried, raising her voice shrilly, "before we go, kill that man!"

And she pointed at Desmond.

Bellward had seized her by the arm and was dragging her through the opening in the shed when a shrill whistle resounded from the garden. Without any warning Mortimer swung round and fired point-blank at Desmond. But Desmond had stooped to spring at the other and the bullet went over his head. With ears singing from the deafening report of the pistol in the confined space, with the acrid smell of cordite in his nostrils, Desmond leapt at Mortimer's throat, hoping to bear him to the ground before he could shoot again. As he sprang he heard the crash of glass and a loud report. Someone cried out sharply "Oh!" as though in surprise and fell prone between him and his quarry; then he stumbled and at the same time received a crashing blow on the head. Without a sound he dropped to the ground across a body that twitched a little and then lay still.

* * * * *

Somewhere in the far, far distance Desmond heard a woman crying—long drawn-out wailing lamentations on a high, quavering note. He had a dull, hard pain in his head which felt curiously stiff. Drowsily he listened for a time to the woman's sobbing, so tired, so curiously faint that he scarcely cared to wonder what it signified. But at last it grated on him by its insistency and he opened his eyes to learn the cause of it.

His bewildered gaze fell upon what seemed to him a gigantic, ogre-like face, as huge, as grotesque, as a pantomime mask. Beside it was a light, a brilliant light, that hurt his eyes.

Then a voice, as faint as a voice on a long distance telephone, said:

"Well, how are you feeling?"

The voice was so remote that Desmond paid no attention to it. But he was rather surprised to hear a voice reply, a voice that came from his own lips, curiously enough:

"Fine!"

So he opened his eyes again to ascertain the meaning of this phenomenon. This time the ogre-like face came into focus, and Desmond saw a man with a tumbler in his hand bending over him.

"That's right," said the man, looking very intently at him, "feel a bit better, eh? Got a bit of a crack, what? Just take a mouthful of brandy... I've got it here!"

Desmond obediently swallowed the contents of the glass that the other held to his lips. He was feeling horribly weak, and very cold. His collar and shirt were unbuttoned, and his neck and shoulders were sopping wet with water. On his ears still fell the wailing of the woman.

"Corporal," said the man bending over him, "just go and tell that old hag to hold her noise! She'll have to go out of the house if she can't be quiet!"

Desmond opened his eyes again. He was lying on the settee in the library. A tall figure in khaki, who had been stirring the fire with his boot, turned at the doctor's summons and left the room. On the table the lamp was still burning but its rays were neutralized by the glare of a crimson dawn which Desmond could see flushing the sky through the shattered panes of the French window. In the centre of the floor lay a long object covered by a tablecloth, beside it a table overturned with a litter of broken glass strewn about the carpet.

The woman's sobbing ceased. The corporal came back into the room.

"She'll be quiet now, sir," he said, "I told her to get you and the gentlemen a cup o' tea."

Then, to Desmond, he said:

"Nasty ding you got, sir! My word, I thought they'd done for you when I come in at the winder!"

The telephone on the desk tingled sharply. The door opened at the same moment and a shabby little old man with sandy side whiskers and moleskin trousers came briskly in.

His appearance had a curious effect on the patient on the settee. Despite the doctor's restraining hand, he struggled into a sitting position, staring in bewilderment at the shabby old man who had gone straight to the telephone and lifted the receiver. And well might Desmond stare; for here was Mr. John Hill, the odd man, talking on the telephone. And his voice...

"Well?" said the man at the telephone, curtly.

"Yes, speaking. You've got her, eh? Good. What's that? Well, that's something. No trace of the others? Damn!"

He slammed down the receiver and turned to face the settee.

"Francis!" cried Desmond.

And then he did a thing highly unbecoming in a field officer. He burst into tears.



CHAPTER XX. THE ODD MAN

Desmond and Francis Okewood sat in the dining-room of the Mill House finishing an excellent breakfast of ham and eggs and coffee which old Martha had prepared for them.

Francis was still wearing Mr. John Hill's greasy jacket and moleskins, but the removal of the sandy whiskers and a remarkable wig, consisting of a bald pate with a fringe of reddish hair, had gone far to restore him to the semblance of his former self.

Desmond was feeling a good deal better. His head had escaped the full force of the smashing blow dealt at him by Strangwise with the butt of his pistol. He had instinctively put up his arm to defend his face and the thickly padded sleeve of Bellward's jacket had broken the force of the blow. Desmond had avoided a fractured skull at the price of an appalling bruise on the right forearm and a nasty laceration of the scalp.

Francis had resolutely declined to enlighten him as to the events of the night until both had breakfasted. After despatching the corporal of military police to hurry the housekeeper on with the breakfast, Francis had taken his brother straight to the dining-room, refusing to let him ask the questions which thronged his brain until they had eaten and drunk. Only when all the ham and eggs had disappeared, did Francis, lighting one of Mr. Bellward's cigars, consent to satisfy his brother's curiosity.

"It was only yesterday morning," he said, "that I landed at Folkstone from the Continent. How I got the Chief's message recalling me and how I made my escape through the Turkish lines to Allenby's headquarters is a long story which will keep. The Chief had a car waiting for me at Folkstone and I reached London in time to lunch with him. We had a long talk and he gave me carte blanche to jump into this business now, when and where I thought I could best help you."

Desmond smiled bitterly.

"The Chief couldn't trust me to make good on my own, I suppose," he said.

"The Chief had a very good idea of the character of the people you had to deal with, Des.," retorted Francis, "and he was a trifle apprehensive that the role you were playing might lead to complications, supposing the gang were to see through your impersonation. He's a wonderful man, that, Des., and he was dead right—as he always is."

"But how?" asked Desmond. "Did the crowd spot me?"

"No," answered the other; "but it was your disguise which was responsible for the escape of Strangwise—"

"What?" cried Desmond. "He's escaped after all!"

Francis nodded.

"Yes," he said, "got clear away and left no trace. Wait a minute and you shall hear! When I have told my story, you shall tell yours and between us, we'll piece things together!

"Well, when I left the Chief yesterday, I came down here. The description of Mr. John Hill, your odd man, rather tickled my fancy. I wanted badly to get at you for a quiet chat and it seemed to me that if I could borrow Mr. Hill's appearance for a few hours now and then I might gain access to you without rousing any suspicion. You see, I knew that old Hill left here about dusk every afternoon, so I guessed the coast would be clear.

"Clarkson's fitted me out with the duds and the make-up and I got down to Wentfield by half-past six. The fog was so infernally thick that it took me more than an hour to get here on foot. It must have been close on eight o'clock when I pushed open your front gate. I thought of going boldly into the kitchen and asking for you, but, fortunately, I decided to have a preliminary prowl round the place. Through a chink in the curtains of the library I saw you and a stranger talking together. The stranger was quite unknown to me; but one thing about him I spotted right off. I saw that he was disguised; so I decided to hang about a bit and await developments.

"I loafed around in the fog for about half an hour. Then I heard a car coming up the drive. I hid myself in the rhododendron bush opposite the front door and saw two men and a woman get out. They hurried into the house, so that I didn't have a chance of seeing their faces. But I got a good, glimpse of the chauffeur as he bent down to turn out the headlights. And, yes, I knew him!"

"Max, they called him," said Desmond.

"His name was Mirsky when last I saw him," answered Francis, "and mine was Apfelbaum, if you want to know. He was a German agent in Russia and as ruthless and unscrupulous a rascal as you'll find anywhere in the German service. I must say I never thought he'd have the nerve to show his face in this country, though I believe he's a Whitechapel Jew born and bred. However, there he was and the sight of his ugly mug told me that something was doing. But like a fool I decided to hang on a bit and watch, instead of going right off in that car and fetching help from Stanning."

"It was just as well you waited," said Desmond, "for if you'd gone off at once they must have heard the car and the fat would have been in the fire straight away!"

And he told Francis of the loud dispute among the confederates in the library, the noise of which had effectually covered the sound of the departing ear.

Francis laughed.

"From my observation post outside," he said, "I could only see you, Des, and that blackguard, Mug, as you two were sitting opposite the window. I couldn't see more than the feet of the others. But your face told me the loud voices which reached me even outside meant that a crisis of some sort was approaching, so I thought it was time to be up and doing. So I sneaked round to the front of the house, got the engine of the car going and started off down the drive.

"I had the very devil of a job to get to Stanning. Ever since you've been down here, the Chief has had special men on duty day and night at the police-station there. I didn't dare stop to light the head-lamps and as a result the first thing I did was to charge the front gate and get the back wheel so thoroughly jammed that it took me the best part of twenty minutes to get the blooming car clear. When at last I got to the station, I found that Matthews, the Chief's man, you know, had just arrived by car from London with a lot of plain-clothes men and some military police. He was in the very devil of a stew. He told me that Bellward had escaped, that the Chief was out of town for the night and ungetatable, and that he (Matthews) had come down on his own to prevent the gaff being blown on you and also to recapture Mr. Bellward if he should be mad enough to make for his old quarters.

"I told Matthews of the situation up at the Mill House. Neither of us was able to understand why you had not telephoned for assistance—we only discovered later that the telephone had been disconnected—but I went bail that you were up against a very stiff proposition. I told Matthews that, by surrounding the house, we might capture the whole gang.

"Matthews is a cautious cuss and he wanted a good deal of persuading, so we lost a lot of time. In the end, he wouldn't take my advice to rush every available man to the scene, but only consented to take two plainclothes men and two military police. He was so precious afraid of upsetting your arrangements. The Chief, it appears, had warned everybody against doing that. So we all piled into the car and I drove them back to the Mill House.

"This time I left the car at the front gate and we went up to the house on foot. We had arranged that Matthews and one of the military police, both armed, should stay and guard the car, while the two plainclothes men and the other military policeman, the corporal here, should accompany me to the house. Matthews believed my yarn that we were only going to 'investigate.' What I intended to do in reality was to round up the whole blessed lot.

"I put one of the plain-clothes men on the front door and the other round at the back of the house. Their orders were to stop anybody who came out and at the same time to whistle for assistance. The corporal and I went to our old observation post outside the library window.

"The moment I glanced into the room I knew that matters had reached a climax. I saw you—looking pretty blue, old man—facing that woman who seemed to be denouncing you. Max stood beside you with a pistol, and beside him was our friend, Mortimer, with a regular whopper of an automatic. Before I had time to move, the plain-clothes man at the back of the house whistled. He had found the secret door with Bellward and the woman coming out of it.

"Then I saw Mortimer fire point-blank at you. I had my gun out in a second, but I was afraid of shooting, for fear of hitting you as you went for the other man.

"But the corporal at my side wasn't worrying much about you. Just as you jumped he put up his gun and let fly at Mortimer with a sense of discrimination which does him infinite credit. He missed Mortimer, but plugged Max plumb through the forehead and my old friend dropped in his tracks right between you and the other fellow. On that we hacked our way through the French window. The corporal found time to have another shot and laid out a tall, odd-looking man..."

"No. 13," elucidated Desmond.

"... When we got inside we found him dead across the threshold of the door leading into the hall. Behrend we caught hiding in a brush cupboard by the back stairs. As for the others—"

"Gone?" queried Desmond with a sudden sinking at his heart.

Francis nodded.

"We didn't waste any time getting through that window," he said, "but the catch was stiff and the broken glass was deuced unpleasant. Still, we were too late. You were laid out on the floor; Mortimer, Bellward and the lady had made their lucky escape. And the secret door showed us how they had gone..."

"But I thought you had a man posted at the back?"

"Would you believe it? When the shooting began, the infernal idiot must rush round to our assistance, so, of course, Mortimer and Co., nipping out by the secret door, got clear away down the drive. But that is not the worst. Matthews gave them the car!"

"No!" said Desmond incredulously.

"He did, though," answered Francis. "Mind you, Mortimer had had the presence of mind to throw off his disguise. He presented himself to Matthews as Strangwise. Matthews knows Strangwise quite well: he has often seen him with the Chief.

"'My God, Captain Strangwise,' says Matthews, as the trio appeared, 'What's happened?'

"'You're wanted up at the house immediately, Matthews,' says Strangwise quite excitedly. 'We're to take the car and go for assistance.'

"Matthews had a look at Strangwise's companions, and seeing Bellward, of course, takes him for you. As for the lady, she had a black lace muffler wound about her face.

"'Miss Mackwayte's coming with us, Matthews,' Strangwise says, seeing Matthews look at the lady. That removed the last of any lurking suspicions that old Matthews might have had. He left the military policeman at the gate and tore off like mad up the drive while Strangwise and the others jumped into the car and were away before you could say 'knife.' The military, policeman actually cranked up the car for them!

"When Matthews burst into the library with the story of you and Strangwise and Miss Mackwayte having gone off for help in our only car, I knew we had been sold. You were there, knocked out of time on the floor, in your disguise as Bellward, so I knew that the man with Strangwise was the real Bellward and I consequently deduced that Strangwise was Mortimer and consequently the very man we had to catch.

"We were done brown. If we had had a little more time to think things out, we should have found that motor-bike and I would have gone after the trio myself. But my first idea was to summon aid. I tried to telephone without success and then we found the wire cut outside. Then I had the idea of pumping Behrend. I found him quite chatty and furious against Mortimer, whom he accused of having sold them. He told us that the party would be sure to make for the Dyke Inn, as Nur-el-Din was there.

"By this time Strangwise and his party had got at least an hour clear start of us. I had set a man to repair the telephone and in the meantime was thinking of sending another on foot to Stanning to fetch one of our cars. Then I found the motor-bike and despatched one of the military policemen on it to Stanning.

"In about half an hour's time he was back with a car in which were Gordon and Harrison and some more military police. I put Matthews in charge of the party and sent them off to the Dyke Inn, though I felt pretty sure we were too late to catch the trio. That was really the reason I stayed behind; besides, I wanted to look after you. I got a turn when I saw you spread out all over the carpet, old man, I can tell you."

Desmond, who had listened with the most eager attention, did not speak for a minute. The sense of failure was strong upon him. How he had bungled it all!

"Look here," he said presently in a dazed voice, "you said just now that Matthews mistook Mrs. Malplaquet for Miss Mackwayte. Why should Matthews think that Miss Mackwayte was down here? Did she come down with you?"

Francis looked at him quickly.

"That crack on the head makes you forget things," he said. "Don't you remember Miss Mackwayte coming down here to see you yesterday afternoon Matthews thought she had stayed on..."

Desmond shook his head.

"She's not been here," he replied. "I'm quite positive about that!"

Francis sprang to his feet.

"Surely you must be mistaken," he said in tones of concern. "The Chief sent her down yesterday afternoon on purpose to see you. She reached Wentfield Station all right; because the porter told Matthews that she asked him the way to the Mill House."

An ominous foreboding struck chill at Desmond's heart. He held his throbbing head for an instant. Someone had mentioned Barbara that night in the library but who was it? And what had he said?

Ah! of course, it was Strangwise. "So that's what she wanted with Nur-el-Din!" he had said.

Desmond felt it all coming back to him now. Briefly he told Francis of his absence from the Mill House in response to the summons from Nur-el-Din, of his interview with the dancer and her story of the Star of Poland, of his hurried return just in time to meet Mortimer, and of Mortimer's enigmatical reference to the dancer in the library that night.

Fancis looked graver and graver as the story proceeded. Desmond noted it and reproached himself most bitterly with his initial failure to inform the Chief of the visits of Nur-el-Din and Mortimer to the Mill House. When he had finished speaking, he did not look at Francis, but gazed mournfully out of the window into the chilly drizzle of a sad winter's day.

"I don't like the look of it at all, Des," said his brother shaking his head, "but first we must make sure that there has been no misunderstanding about Miss Mackwayte. You say your housekeeper was already here when you came back from the Dyke Inn. She may have seen her. Let's have old Martha in!"

Between fright, bewilderment and indignation at the invasion of the house, old Martha was, if anything, deafer and more stupid than usual. After much interrogation they had to be satisfied with her repeated assertion that "she 'adn't seen no young lady" and allowed her to hobble back to her kitchen.

The two brothers stared at one another blankly. Francis was the first to speak. His eyes were shining and his manner was rather tense.

"Des," he asked; "what do you make of it? From what Strangwise let fall in the library here tonight, it seems probable that Miss Mackwayte, instead of coming here to see you as she was told—or she may have called during your absence—went to the Dyke Inn and saw Nur-el-Din. The muffed cry you heard at the inn suggests foul play to me and that suspicion is deepened in my mind by the fact that Matthews found Nur-el-Din at the Dyke Inn, as he reported to me by telephone just now; but he says nothing about Miss Mackwayte. Des, I fear the worst for that poor girl if she has fallen into the hands of that gang!"

Desmond remained silent for a moment. He was trying to piece things together as best as his aching head would allow. Both Nur-el-Din and Strangwise were after the jewel. Nur-el-Din believed that afternoon that Strangwise had it, while Strangwise, on discovering his loss, had seemed to suggest that Barbara Mackwayte had recovered it.

"Either Strangwise or Nur-el-Din, perhaps both of them," said Desmond, "must know what has become of Miss Mackwayte."

And he explained his reasoning to Francis. His brother nodded quickly.

"Then Nur-el-Din shall tell us," he answered sternly.

"They've arrested her?" asked Desmond with a sudden pang.

"Yes," said Francis curtly. But too late to prevent a crime being committed. When Matthews and his party arrived, they found Nur-el-Din in the very act of leaving the inn. The landlord, Rass, was lying dead on the floor of the tap-room with a bullet through the temple. That looks to me, Des, as though Nur-el-Din had recovered the jewel!"

"But Rass is a compatriot of hers," Desmond objected.

"But he was also an inconvenient witness of her dealings with Strangwise," retorted Francis. "If either Nur-el-Din or Strangwise have regained possession of the Star of Poland, Des, I fear the worst for Barbara Mackwayte. Come in!"

The corporal stood, saluting, at the door.

"Mr. Matthews on the telephone, sir!"

Francis hurried away, leaving Desmond to his thoughts, which were not of the most agreeable. Had he been wrong in thinking Nur-el-Din a victim? Was he, after all, nothing but a credulous fool who had been hoodwinked by a pretty woman's play-acting? And had he sacrificed Barbara Mackwayte to his obstinacy and his credulousness?

Francis burst suddenly into the room.

"Des," he cried, "they've found Miss Mackwayte's hat on the floor of the tap-room... it is stained with blood..."

Desmond felt himself growing pale:

"And the girl herself," he asked thickly, "what of her?"

Francis shook his head.

"Vanished," he replied gravely. "Vanished utterly. Desmond," he added, "we must go over to the Dyke Inn at once!"



CHAPTER XXI. THE BLACK VELVET TOQUE

Across Morsted Fen the day was breaking red and sullen. The brimming dykes, fringed with bare pollards, and the long sheets of water spread out across the lush meadows, threw back the fiery radiance of the sky from their gleaming surface. The tall poplars about the Dyke Inn stood out hard and clear in the ruddy light; beyond them the fen, stretched away to the flaming horizon gloomy and flat and desolate, with nothing higher than the stunted pollards visible against the lurid background.

Upon the absolute silence of the scene there presently broke the steady humming of a car. A great light, paled by the dawn, came bobbing and sweeping, along the road that skirted the fen's edge. A big open car drew up by the track and branched, off to the inn. Its four occupants consulted together for an instant and then alighted. Three of them were in plain clothes; the other was a soldier. The driver was also in khaki.

"They're astir, Mr. Matthews," said one, of the plain clothes men, pointing towards the house, "see, there's a light in the inn!"

They followed the direction of his finger and saw a beam of yellow light gleaming from among the trees.

"Get your guns out, boys!" said Matthews. "Give them a chance to put their hands up, and if they don't obey, shoot!"

Very swiftly but very quietly, the four men picked their way over the miry track to the little bridge leading to the yard in front of the inn. The light they had remarked shone from the inn door, a feeble, flickering light as of an expiring candle.

Matthews, who was leading, halted and listened. Everything was quite still. Above their head the inn sign groaned uneasily as it was stirred by the fresh morning breeze.

"You, Gordon," whispered Matthews to the man behind him—they had advanced in Indian file—"take Bates and go round to the back. Harrison will go in by the front with me."

Even as he spoke a faint noise came from the interior of the house. The four men stood stock-still and listened. In the absolute stillness of the early morning, the sound fell distinctly on their ears. It was a step—a light step—descending the stairs.

Gordon and the soldier detached themselves from the party as Matthews and the other plain clothes man crossed the bridge swiftly and went up to the inn door. Hardly had Matthews got his foot on the stone step of the threshold than, a piercing shriek resounded from the room quite close at hand. The next minute a flying figure burst out of the door and fell headlong into the arms of Matthews who was all but overbalanced by the force of the impact.

He closed with the figure and grappled it firmly. His arms encountered a frail, light body, shaking from head to foot, enveloped in a cloak of some soft, thick material.

"It's a woman!" cried Matthews.

"It's Nur-el-Din!" exclaimed his companion in the same breath, seizing the woman by the arm.

The dancer made no attempt to escape. She stood with bowed head, trembling violently, in a cowering, almost a crouching posture.

Harrison, who had the woman by the arm, had turned her head so that he could see her face. She was deathly pale and her black eyes were wide open, the pupils dilated. Her teeth were chattering in her head. She seemed incapable of speech or motion.

"Nur-el-Din?" exclaimed Matthews in accents of triumph. "Bring her in, Harrison, and let's have a look at her!"

But the woman recoiled in terror. She arched her body stiff, like a child in a passion, and strained every muscle to remain where she was cowering by the inn-door.

"Come on, my girl," said the man not unkindly, "don't you 'ear wot the Guv'nor sez! In you go!"

Then the girl screamed aloud.

"No, no!" she cried, "not in that house! For the love of God, don't take me back into that room! Ah! For pity's sake, let me stay outside! Take me to prison but not, not into that house again!"

She half fell on her knees in the mire, pleading, entreating, her body shaken by sobs.

Then Harrison, who was an ex-Guardsman and a six-footer at that, plucked her off her feet and carried her, still struggling, still imploring with piteous cries, over the threshold into the house: Matthews followed behind.

The shutters of the tap-room were still closed. Only a strip of the dirty floor, strewn with sawdust, was illuminated by a bar of reddish light from the daybreak outside. On the table a candle, burnt down to the socket of its brass candlestick, flared and puttered in a riot of running wag. Half in the bar of daylight from outside, half in the darkness beyond the open door, against which the flickering candlelight struggled feebly, lay the body of a yellow-faced, undersized man with a bullet wound through the temple.

Without effort Harrison deposited his light burden on her feet by the table. Instantly, the girl fled, like some frightened animal of the woods, to the farthest corner of the room. Here she dropped sobbing on her knees, rocking herself to and fro in a sort of paroxysm of hysteria. Harrison moved quickly round the table after her; but he was checked by a cry from Matthews who was kneeling by the body.

"Let her be," said Matthews, "she's scared of this and no wonder! Come here a minute, Harrison, and see if you know, this chap!"

Harrison crossed the room and looked down at the still figure. He whistled softly.

"My word!" he said, "but he copped it all right, sir! Ay, I know him well enough! He's Rass, the landlord of this pub, that's who he is, as harmless a sort of chap as ever was! Who did it, d'you think, sir?"

Matthews, who had been going through the dead man's pockets, now rose to his feet.

"Nothing worth writing home about there," he said half aloud. Then to Harrison, he added: "That's what we've got to discover... hullo, who's this?"

The door leading from the bar to the tap-room was thrust open. Gordon put his head in.

"I left Bates on guard outside, sir," he said in answer to an interrogatory glance from Matthews, "I've been all over the ground floor and there's not a soul here..."

He checked himself suddenly.

"God bless my soul!" he exclaimed, his eyes on the figure crouching in the corner, "you don't mean to say you've got her? A pretty dance she led Dug and myself! Well, sir, it looks to me like a good night's work!".

Matthews smiled a self-satisfied smile.

"I fancy the Chief will be pleased," he said, "though the rest of 'em seem to have given us the slip. Gordon, you might take a look upstairs—that door in the corner leads to the upper rooms, I fancy whilst I'm telephoning to Mr. Okewood. He must know about this without delay. You, Harrison, keep an eye on the girl!"

He went through the door leading into the bar, and they heard him speaking on the telephone which hung on the wall behind the counter. He returned presently with a white tablecloth which he threw over the prostrate figure on the floor.

Then he turned to the dancer.

"Stand up," he said sternly, "I want to speak to you."

Nur-el-Din cast a frightened glance over her shoulder at the floor beside the table where Rass lay. On seeing the white pall that hid him from view, she became somewhat reassured. She rose unsteadily to her feet and stood facing Matthews.

"In virtue of the powers conferred upon me by the Defence of the Realm Acts, I arrest you for espionage... Matthews rolled off in glib, official gabble the formula of arrest ending with the usual caution that anything the prisoner might say might be used against her at her trial. Then he said to Harrison:

"Better put them on her, Harrison!"

The plain clothes man took a pace forward and touched the dancer's slender wrists, there was a click and she was handcuffed.

"Now take her in there," said Matthews pointing to the bar. "There's no exit except by this room. And don't take your eyes off her. You understand? Mr. Okewood will be along presently with a female searcher."

"Sir!" said the plain clothes man with military precision and touched the dancer on the shoulder. Without a word she turned and followed him into the bar.

Gordon entered by the door at the end of the room.

"I'd like you to have a look upstairs, sir," he said to Matthews, "there's not a soul in the house, but somebody has been locked up in one of the rooms. The door is still locked but one of the panels has been forced out. I think you ought to see it!"

The two men passed out of the tap-room together, and mounted the stairs. On the landing Matthews paused a moment to glance out of the window on to the bleak and inhospitable fen which was almost obscured from view by a heavy drizzle of rain.

"Brr!" said Mr. Matthews, "what a horrible place!"

Looking up the staircase from the landing, they could see that one of the panels of the door facing the head of the stairs had been pressed out and lay on the ground. They passed up the stairs and Matthews, putting one arm and his head through the opening, found himself gazing into that selfsame ugly sitting room where Desmond had talked with Nur-el-Din.

A couple of vigorous heaves burst the fastening of the door. The sitting-room was in the wildest confusion. The doors of the sideboard stood wide with its contents scattered higgledy-piggledy on the carpet. A chest of drawers in the corner had been ransacked, some of the drawers having been taken bodily out and emptied on the floor.

The door leading to the inner room stood open and showed that a similar search had been conducted there as well. The inner room proved to be a bare white-washed place, very plainly furnished as a bedroom. On the floor stood a small attache case, and beside it a little heap of miscellaneous articles such as a woman would take away with her for a weekend, a crepe-de-chine nightdress, a dainty pair of bedroom slippers and some silver-mounted toilet fittings. From these things Matthews judged that this had been Nur-el-Din's bedroom.

The two men spent a long time going through the litter with which the floor in the bedroom and sitting room was strewed. But their labors were vain, and they turned their attention to the remaining rooms, of which there were three.

The first room they visited, adjoining Nur-el-Din's bedroom, was scarcely better than an attic. It contained in the way of furniture little else than a truckle-bed, a washstand, a table and a chair. Women's clothes were hanging on hooks behind the door. The place looked like a servant's bedroom.

They pursued their search. Across the corridor two rooms stood side by side. One proved to be Rass's. His clothes lay about the room, and on a table in the corner, where writing materials stood, were various letters and bills made out in his name.

The other room had also been occupied; for the bed was made and turned back for the night and there were clean towels on the washstand. But there was no clue as to its occupant save for a double-barreled gun which stood in the corner. It had evidently been recently used; for fresh earth was adhering to the stock and the barrel, though otherwise clean, showed traces of freshly-burnt powder.

There being nothing further to glean upstairs, the two men went down to the tap-room again. As Matthews came through the door leading from the staircase his eye caught a dark object which lay on the floor under the long table. He fished it out with his stick.

It was a small black velvet toque with a band of white and black silk flowers round it. In one part the white flowers were besmeared with a dark brown stain.

Matthews stared at the little hat in his hand with puckered brows. Then he called to Gordon.

"Do you know that hat?" he asked, holding it up for the man to see.

Gordon shook his head.

"I might have seen it," he replied, "but I don't take much account of such things, Mr. Matthews, being a married man..."

"Tut, tut," fussed Matthews, "I think you have seen it. Come, think of the office for a minute!"

"Of the office?" repeated Gordon. Then he exclaimed suddenly:

"Miss Mackwayte!"

"Exactly," answered Matthews, "it's her hat, I recall it perfectly. She wore it very often to the office. Look at the blood on it!"

He put the hat down on the table and ran into the bar where Nur-el-Din sat immobile on her chair, wrapped in a big overcoat of some soft blanket cloth in dark green, her chin sunk on her breast.

Matthews called up the Mill House and asked for Francis Okewood. When he mentioned the finding of Barbara Mackwayte's hat, the dancer raised her head and cast a frightened glance at Matthews. But she said nothing and when Matthews turned from the telephone to go back to the tap-room she had resumed her former listless attitude.

Matthews and Gordon made a thorough search of the kitchen and back premises without finding anything of note. They had just finished when the sound of a car outside attracted their attention. On the road beyond the little bridge outside the inn Francis and Desmond Okewood were standing, helping a woman to alight. Francis was still wearing his scarecrow-like apparel, while Desmond, with his beard and pale face and bandaged head, looked singularly unlike the trim Brigade Major who had come home on leave only a week or so before.

Matthews went out to meet them and, addressing the woman—a brisk-looking person—as Mrs. Butterworth, informed her that it was shocking weather. Then he led the way into the inn.

The first thing that Desmond saw was the little toque with the brown stain on its flowered band lying on the table. Francis picked it up, turned it over and laid it down again.

"Where did you find it?" he asked Matthews. The latter informed him of the circumstances of the discovery. Then Francis, sending the searcher in to Nur-el-Din in the bar, pointed to the body on the floor.

"Let's have a look at that!" he said.

Matthews removed the covering and the three men gazed at the set face of the dead man. There was a clean bullet wound in the right temple. Matthews showed the papers he had taken off the body and exchanged a few, words in a low tone with Francis. There is something about the presence of death which impels respect whatever the circumstances.

Five minutes later Mrs. Butterworth came out of the bar. In her hands she held a miscellaneous assortment of articles, a small gold chain purse, a pair of gloves, a gold cigarette case, a tiny handkerchief, and a long blue envelope. She put all the articles down on the tables save the envelope which she handed to Francis.

"This was in the lining of her overcoat, sir," she said.

Francis took the envelope and broke the seal. He drew out half a dozen sheets of thin paper, folded lengthwise. Leisurely he unfolded them, but he had hardly glanced at the topmost sheet than he turned to the next and the next until he had run through the whole bunch. Desmond, peering over his shoulder, caught a glimpse of rows of figures, very neatly set out in a round hand and knew that he was looking at a message in cipher code.

The door at the end of the tap-room was flung open and a soldier came in quickly.

He stopped irresolute on seeing the group.

"Well, Bates," said Matthews.

"There's a woman lying dead in the cellar back yonder," said the man, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

"The cellar?" cried Matthews.

"Yes, sir... I think you must ha' overlooked it."

Francis, Desmond and Matthews exchanged a brief glance. A name was on the lips of each one of them but none dared speak it. Then, leaving Harrison and Mrs. Butterworth with Nur-el-Din, the three men followed the soldier and hurriedly quitted the room.



CHAPTER XXII. WHAT THE CELLAR REVEALED

On opening the door at the farther end of the tap-room they saw before them a trap-door standing wide with a shallow flight of wooden steps leading to the darkness below. Bates pointed with his foot to a square of linoleum which lay on one side.

"That was covering the trap," he said, "I wouldn't ha' noticed nothing out of the ordinary myself only I slipped, see, and kicked this bit o' ilecloth away and there was the ring of the trap staring me in the face, as you might say. Show us a light here, Gordon!"

Gordon handed him an electric torch. He flashed it down the stair. It fell upon something like a heap of black clothes huddled up at the foot of the ladder.

"Is it Miss Mackwayte?" whispered Francis to his brother. "I've never seen her, you know!"

"I can't tell," Desmond whispered back, "until I see her face."

He advanced to descend the ladder but Matthews was before him. Producing an electric torch from his pocket, Matthews slipped down the stair with Gordon close behind. There was a pause, so tense that it seemed an eternity to Desmond, as he waited half-way down the ladder with the musty smell of the cellar in his nostrils. Then Matthews cried:

"It's not her!"

"Let me look!" Gordon broke in. Then Desmond heard him exclaim.

"It's Nur-el-Din's French maid! It's Marie... she's been stabbed in the back!"

Desmond suddenly felt rather sick. This progress from one deed of violence to another revolted him. The others crowded into the cellar; but he did not follow them. He remained at the top of the trap, leaning against the wall, trying to collect his thoughts.

Barbara Mackwayte was now his sole preoccupation. If anything had happened to her,—it was through his fault alone; for he began to feel sure she must have come to the Mill House in his absence. What then had become of her? The blood-stained toque pointed to foul play. But if they had murdered her, what had they done with the body?

His thoughts flew back to his interview with Nur-el-Din upstairs on the previous afternoon. He remembered the entrance of the maid and the dancer's hurried exit. Might not Marie have come to tell her that Barbara Mackwayte was below asking for her? It was very shortly after this interruption that, crouching on the roof of the shed, he had heard that muffled cry from the house and seen Rass enter the bar and speak with Strangwise. He had seen, too, the maid, Marie, in earnest conversation with Strangwise by the back gate on the fen. Had both Marie and Rass been in league with Strangwise against the dancer? And had Nur-el-Din discovered their treachery? His mind refused to follow these deductions to their logical sequence; for, black as things looked against Nur-el-Din, he could not bring himself to believe her a murderess.

But now there were footsteps on the ladder. They were all coming out of the cellar again. As soon as Francis saw Desmond's face, he caught his brother by the arm and said:

"The open air for you, my boy! You look as if you'd seen a ghost! I should have remembered all you've gone through!"

He walked him quickly through the tap-room and out through the inn door into the yard.

The rain had ceased and the sun was making a brave attempt to shine through the clouds. The cold air did Desmond good and after a turn or two in the yard, arm in arm with Francis, he felt considerably better.

"Where is Miss Mackwayte?" he asked.

"Des," said his brother, "I don't know and I don't want to cross-examine Nur-el-Din in there until I have reasoned out some theory which will fit Miss Mackwayte in her place in this horrible affair. The men have gone to search the outhouses and precincts of the inn to see if they can find any traces of her body, but I don't think they will find anything. I believe that Miss Mackwayte is alive."

"Alive?" said Desmond.

"The blood on that toque of hers might have been Rass's. There is a good deal of blood on the floor. You see, I still think Miss Mackwayte's safety depends on that jewel not being recovered by either Strangwise or Nur-el-Din. Strangwise, we know, has lost the jewel and there is no trace of it here: moreover, we know that, as late as yesterday afternoon, Nur-el-Din did not have it. Therefore, she cannot have sent it away! I am inclined to believe, too, that Strangwise, before going over to the Mill House last night, carried off Miss Mackwayte somewhere with the aid of Rass and Marie, who were evidently his accomplices, in order to find out from her where the jewel is concealed..."

"But Miss Mackwayte cannot know what has become of it," objected Desmond.

"Maybe not," retorted his brother, "but both Strangwise and Nur-el-Din know that the jewel was originally entrusted to her charge. Nur-el-Din did not, it is true, tell Miss Mackwayte what the silver box contained but the latter may have found out, at least the dancer might suppose so; while Strangwise might think the same. Therefore, both Strangwise and Nur-el-Din had an interest in detaining Miss Mackwayte, and I think Strangwise forestalled the dancer. When Nur-el-Din discovered it, both Rass and her maid paid the penalty of their betrayal."

They walked once up and down the yard before Desmond replied.

"Francis," he said, "you remember Nur-el-Din's story—I told it to you just as I had it from her."

"Perfectly," answered his brother.

"Well," Desmond went on deliberately, "I think that story gives us the right measure of Nur-el-Din's, character. She may be vain, she may be without morals, she may be weak, she may be an adventuress, but she's not a murderess. If anything, she's a victim!"

Francis laughed shortly.

"Victim be damned!" he cried. "Man alive," he went on, "how can you talk such nonsense in face of the evidence, with this bloody-minded woman's victims hardly cold yet? But, horrible as these murders are, the private squabbles of this gang of spies represent neither your interest nor mine in this case. For us the fact remains that Nur-el-Din, besides being a monster of iniquity, is the heart and soul and vitals of the whole conspiracy!"

Jaded and nervous, Desmond felt a quick sting of resentment at his brother's tone. Why should Francis thus lay down the law to him about Nur-el-Din? Francis knew nothing of the girl or her antecedents while he, Desmond, flattered himself that he had at least located the place she occupied in this dark conspiracy. And he cried out vehemently:

"You're talking like a fool! I grant you that Nur-el-Din has been mixed up with this spy crowd; but she herself stands absolutely apart from the organization..."

"Half a minute!" put in Francis, "aren't you forgetting that blue envelope we took off her just now?"

"What about it?" asked Desmond sharply.

"Merely this; the cipher is in five figure groups, addressed to a four figure group and signed by a six figure group..."

"Well?"

"That happens to be the current secret code of the German Great General Staff. If you were to tap a German staff message out in France to-day, ten to one it would be in that code. Curious coincidence, isn't it?"

When one is angry, to be baffled in argument does not have a sedative effect as a rule. If we were all philosophers it might; but being merely human beings, cold reason acts on the inflamed temperament as a red rag is said to affect a bull.

Desmond, sick with the sense of failure and his anxiety about Barbara, was in no mood to listen to reason. The cold logic of his brother infuriated him mainly because Desmond knew that Francis was right.

"I don't care a damn for the evidence," vociferated Desmond; "It may look black against Nur-el-Din; I daresay it does; but I have met and talked to this girl and I tell you again that she is not a principal in this affair but a victim!"

"You talk as if you were in love with the woman!" Francis said mockingly.

Desmond went rather white.

"If pity is a form of love," he replied in a low voice, "then I am, for God knows I never pitied any woman as I pity Nur-el-Din! Only you, I suppose," he added bitterly, "are too much of the policeman, Francis, to appreciate anything like that!" Hot tempers run in families and Francis flared up on the instant.

"I may be a policeman, as you say," he retorted, "but I've got enough sense of my duty, I hope, not to allow sentimentality to interfere with my orders!"

It was a shrewd thrust and it caught Desmond on the raw.

"I'm sick of arguing here," he said hotly, "if you're so mighty clever, you'd better shoot Nur-el-Din first and arrest Strangwise afterwards. Then you'll find out which of us two is right!"

He turned on his heel and started for the little bridge leading out onto the fen.

Francis stood still a moment watching him, then ran after him. He caught up with Desmond as the latter reached the bridge.

"Desmond!" he said, pleadingly.

"Oh, go to hell!" retorted the other savagely, whereupon Francis turned his back on him and walked back to the inn.

A car had stopped by the bridge and a man was getting out of it as Desmond moved towards the fen. The next moment he found himself face to face with the Chief.

The Chief's face was hard and cold and stern. There was a furrow between his eyes which deepened when he recognized Desmond.

"Well," he said curtly, "and where is my secretary?"

"I don't know," Desmond faltered.

"Why are you here, then?" came back in that hard, uncompromising voice.

Desmond was about to reply; but the other checked him.

"I know all you have to say," he resumed, "but no excuse you can offer can explain away the disappearance of Miss Mackwayte. Your orders were formal to remain at home. You saw fit to disobey them and thereby, maybe, sent Miss Mackwayte to her death. No!" he added, seeing that Desmond was about to expostulate, "I want to hear nothing from you. However obscure the circumstances of Miss Mackwayte's disappearance may be, one fact is perfectly clear, namely, that she went to the Mill House, as she was ordered and you were not there. For no man or woman in my service ever dares to disobey an order I have given."

"Chief..." Desmond broke in, but again that inexorable voice interposed.

"I will hear nothing from you," said the Chief, "it is a rule of mine never to interfere with my men in their work or to see them until their mission has been successfully completed. When you have found Miss Mackwayte I will hear you but not before!"

Desmond drew himself up.

"In that case, sir," he said stiffly, "I will bid you good morning. And I trust you will hear from me very soon again!"

He walked over to one of the cars waiting outside the inn, spoke a word to the driver and got in. The driver started the engine and presently the car was bumping slowly along the muddy track to the main road.

The Chief stood looking after him.

"Well," he murmured to himself. "I soaked it into him pretty hard; but he took it like a brick. I do believe he'll find her yet!"

He shook his head sagely and continued on his way across the yard.



CHAPTER XXIII. MRS. MALPLAQUET GOES DOWN TO THE CELLAR

In the age of chivalry woman must have been built of sterner stuff than the girl of to-day. At least, we read in medieval romance of fair ladies who, after being knocked down by a masterful suitor and carried off across his saddle bow thirty or forty miles, are yet able to appear, cold but radiantly beautiful, at the midnight wedding and the subsequent marriage feast.

But this is a romance of the present day, the age of nerves and high velocity. Barbara Mackwayte, strong and plucky as she was, after being half throttled and violently thrown into the cellar of the Dyke Inn, suddenly gave way under the strain and conveniently evaded facing the difficulties of her position by fainting clear away.

The precise moment when she came out of her swoon she never knew. The cellar was dark; but it was nothing compared to the darkness enveloping her mind. She lay there on the damp and mouldy straw, hardly able, scarcely wanting, to move, overwhelmed by the extraordinary adventure which had befallen her. Was this to be the end of the pleasant trip into the country on which she had embarked so readily only a few hours before? She tried to remember that within twenty miles of her were policemen and taxis and lights and all the attributes of our present day civilization; but her thoughts always returned, with increasing horror, to that undersized yellow-faced man in the room above, to the face of Nur-el-Din, dark and distorted with passion.

A light shining down the cellar stairs drew her attention to the entrance. The woman she had already seen and in whom she now recognized Marie, the dancer's maid, was descending, a tray in her hand. She placed the tray on the ground without a word, then went up the stairs again and fetched the lamp. She put the lamp down by the tray and, stooping, cut the ropes that fastened Barbara's hands and feet.

"So, Mademoiselle," she said, drawing herself erect with a grunt, "your supper: some tea and meat!"

She pulled a dirty deal box from a corner of the cellar and put the tray upon it. Then she rose to her feet and sat down. The maid watched Barbara narrowly while she ate a piece of bread and drank the tea.

"At least," thought Barbara to herself, "they don't mean to starve me!"

The tea was hot and strong; and it did her good. It seemed to clear her faculties, too; for her brain began to busy itself with the problem of escaping from her extraordinary situation.

"Mademoiselle was a leetle too clevaire," said the maid with an evil leer,—"she would rob Madame, would she? She would play the espionne, hein? Eh bien, ma petite, you stay 'ere ontil you say what you lave done wiz ze box of Madame!"

"Why do you say I have stolen the box?" protested Barbara, "when I tell you I know nothing of it. It was stolen from me by the man who killed my father. More than that I don't know. You don't surely think I would conspire to kill" her voice trembled—"my father, to get possession of this silver box that means nothing to me!"

Marie laughed cynically.

"Ma foi," she cried, "when one is a spy, one will stop at nothing! But tiens, here is Madame!"

Nur-el-Din picked her way carefully down the steps, the yellow-faced man behind her. He had a pistol in his hand. The dancer said something in French to her maid who picked up the tray and departed.

"Now, Mademoiselle," said Nur-el-Din, "you see this pistol. Rass here will use it if you make any attempt to escape. You understand me, hein? I come to give you a las' chance to say where you 'ave my box..."

Barbara looked at the dancer defiantly.

"I've told you already I know nothing about it. You, if any one, should be better able to say what has become of it..."

"Quoi?" exclaimed Nur-el-Din in genuine surprise, "comment?"

"Because," said Barbara, "a long black hair—one of your hairs—was found adhering to the straps with which I was fastened!"

"Tiens!" said the dancer, her black eyes wide with surprise, "tiens!"

She was silent for a minute, lost in thought. The man, Rass, suddenly cocked his ear towards the staircase and said something to Nur-el-Din in the same foreign tongue which Barbara had heard them employ before.

The dancer made a gesture, bidding him to be silent.

"He was at my dressing-table that night;" she murmured in French, as though to herself, "then it was he who did it!"

She spoke rapidly to Barbara.

"This man who tied you up... you didn't see him?"

Barbara shook her head.

"I could see nothing; I don't even know that it was a man. He seized me so suddenly that in the dark I could distinguish nothing... it might have been a woman... yourself, for instance, for all I know!"

Nur-el-Din clasped her hands together.

"It was he, himself, then," she whispered, "I might have known. Yet he has not got it here!"

Heavy footsteps resounded in the room above. Rass cried out something swiftly to the dancer, thrust the pistol into her hands, and dashed up the ladder. The next moment there was a loud report followed by the thud of a heavy body falling. Somewhere in the rooms above a woman screamed.

Nur-el-Din's hands flew to her face and the pistol crashed to the ground. Two men appeared at the head of the cellar stairs. One was Strangwise, in uniform, the other was Bellward.

"They're both here!" said Strangwise over his shoulder to Bellward.

"Ah, thank God, you've come!" cried Barbara, running to the foot of the ladder.

Strangwise brushed past her and caught Nur-el-Din by the arm.

"Run her upstairs," he said quickly to Bellward who had followed behind him, "and lock her in her room. I've seen to the rest. You, Miss Mackwayte," he added to Barbara, "you will come with us!"

Barbara was staring in fascination at Bellward. She had never believed that any disguise could be so baffling, so complete; Major Okewood, she thought, looked like a different man.

But Bellward had grasped the dancer by the two arms and forced her up the stairs in front of him. Nur-el-Din seemed too overcome with terror to utter a sound.