Okewood of the Secret Service

by Valentine Williams

Contents

CHAPTER I.
THE DEPUTY TURN

Mr. Arthur Mackwayte slipped noiselessly into the dining-room and took his place at the table. He always moved quietly, a look of gentle deprecation on his face as much as to say: “Really, you know, I can’t help being here: if you will just overlook me this time, by and by you won’t notice I’m there at all!” That was how he went through life, a shy, retiring little man, quiet as a mouse, gentle as a dove, modesty personified.

That is, at least, how Mr. Arthur Mackwayte struck his friends in private life. Once a week, however, he fairly screamed at the public from the advertisement columns of “The Referee”: “Mackwayte, in his Celebrated Kerbstone Sketches. Wit! Pathos! Tragedy!!! The Epitome of London Life. Universally Acclaimed as the Greatest Portrayer of London Characters since the late Chas. Dickens. In Tremendous Demand for Public Dinners. The Popular Favorite. A Few Dates still Vacant. 23, Laleham Villas, Seven Kings. ’Phone” and so on.

But only professionally did Mr. Mackwayte thus blow his own trumpet, and then in print alone. For the rest, he had nothing great about him but his heart. A long and bitter struggle for existence had left no hardness in his smooth-shaven flexible face, only wrinkles. His eyes were gray and keen and honest, his mouth as tender as a woman’s.

His daughter, Barbara, was already at table pouring out the tea—high tea is still an institution in music-hall circles. Mr. Mackwayte always gazed on this tall, handsome daughter of his with amazement as the great miracle of his life. He looked at her now fondly and thought how.... how distinguished, yes, that was the word, she looked in the trim blue serge suit in which she went daily to her work at the War Office.

“Rations a bit slender to-night, daddy,” she said, handing him his cup of tea, “only sardines and bread and butter and cheese. Our meatless day, eh?”

“It’ll do very well for me, Barbara, my dear,” he answered in his gentle voice, “there have been times when your old dad was glad enough to get a cup of tea and a bite of bread and butter for his supper. And there’s many a one worse off than we are today!”

“Any luck at the agent’s, daddy?”

Mr. Mackwayte shook his head.

“These revues are fair killing the trade, my dear, and that’s a fact. They don’t want art to-day, only rag-time and legs and all that. Our people are being cruelly hit by it and that’s a fact. Why, who do you think I ran into at Harris’ this morning? Why, Barney who used to work with the great Charles, you know, my dear. For years he drew his ten pound a week regular. Yet there he was, looking for a job the same as the rest of us. Poor fellow, he was down on his luck!”

Barbara looked up quickly.

“Daddy, you lent him money....”

Mr. Mackwayte looked extremely uncomfortable.

“Only a trifle, my dear, just a few shillings.... to take him over the week-end.... he’s getting something.... he’ll repay me, I feel sure....”

“It’s too bad of you, daddy,” his daughter said severely. “I gave you that ten shillings to buy yourself a bottle of whiskey. You know he won’t pay you back. That Barney’s a bad egg!”

“Things are going bad with the profession,” replied Mr. Mackwayte. “They don’t seem to want any of us old stagers today, Barbara!”

“Now, daddy, you know I don’t allow you to talk like that. Why, you are only just finished working.... the Samuel Circuit, too!”

Barbara looked up at the old man quickly.

“Only, four weeks’ trial, my dear.... they didn’t want me, else they would have given me the full forty weeks. No, I expect I am getting past my work. But it’s hard on you child....”

Barbara sprang up and placed her hand across her father’s mouth.

“I won’t have you talk like that, Mac”—that was her pet name for him—“you’ve worked hard all your life and now it’s my turn. Men have had it all their own way before this war came along: now women are going to have a look in. Presently, when I get to be supervisor of my section and they raise my pay again, you will be able to refuse all offers of work. You can go down to Harris with a big cigar in your mouth and patronize him, daddy...”

The telephone standing on the desk in the corner of the cheap little room tingled out sharply. Barbara rose and went across to the desk. Mr. Mackwayte thought how singularly graceful she looked as she stood, very slim, looking at him whimsically across the dinner-table, the receiver in her hand.

Then a strange thing happened. Barbara quickly put the receiver down on the desk and clasped her hands together, her eyes opened wide in amazement.

“Daddy,” she cried, “it’s the Palaceum... the manager’s office... they want you urgently! Oh, daddy, I believe it is an engagement!”

Mr. Mackwayte rose to his feet in agitation, a touch of color creeping into his gray cheeks.

“Nonsense, my dear!” he answered, “at this time of night! Why, it’s past eight... their first house is just finishing... they don’t go engaging people at this time of day... they’ve got other things to think of!”

He went over to the desk and picked up the receiver.

“Mackwayte speaking!” he said, with a touch of stage majesty in his voice.

Instantly a voice broke in on the other end of the wire, a perfect torrent of words.

“Mackwayte? Ah! I’m glad I caught you at home. Got your props there? Good. Hickie of Hickie and Flanagan broke his ankle during their turn at the first house just now, and I want you to take their place at the second house. Your turn’s at 9.40: it’s a quarter past eight now: I’ll have a car for you at your place at ten to nine sharp. Bring your band parts and lighting directions with you... don’t forget! You get twenty minutes, on! Right! Goodbye!”

“The Palaceum want me to deputize for Hickie and Flanagan, my dear,” he said a little tremulously, “9.40... the second house... it’s... it’s very unexpected!”

Barbara ran up and throwing her arms about his neck, kissed him.

“How splendid!” she exclaimed, “the Palaceum, daddy! You’ve never had an engagement like this before... the biggest hall in London...!!

“Only for a night, my dear,” said Mr. Mackwayte modestly.

“But if they like you, daddy, if it goes down... what will you give them, daddy?”

Mr. Mackwayte scratched his chin.

“It’s the biggest theatre in London,” he mused, “It’ll have to be broad effects... and they’ll want something slap up modern, my dear, I’m thinking...”

“No, no, daddy” his daughter broke in vehemently “they want the best. This is a London audience, remember, not a half-baked provincial house. This is London, Mac, not Wigan! And Londoners love their London! You’ll give ’em the old London horse bus driver, the sporting cabby, and I believe you’ll have time to squeeze in the hot potato man...”

“Well, like your poor dear mother, I expect you know what’s the best I’ve got” replied Mr. Mackwayte, “but it’ll be a bit awkward with a strange dresser... I can’t get hold of Potter at this time, of night... and a stranger is sure to mix up my wigs and things...”

“Why, daddy, I’m going with you to put out your things...”

“But a lady clerk in the War Office, Barbara... a Government official, as you might say... go behind at a music-hall... it don’t seem proper right, my dear!”

“Nonsense, Mac. Where’s your theatre trunk? Come along. We’ll have to try and get a taxi!”

“They’re sending a car at ten to nine, my dear!”

“Good gracious! what swells we are! And it’s half-past eight already! Who is on the bill with you?”

“My dear, I haven’t an idea... I’m not very well up in the London programmes, I’m afraid... but it is sure to be a good programme. The Palaceum is the only house that’s had the courage to break away from this rotten revue craze!”

Barbara was in the hall now, her arms plunged to the shoulder in a great basket trunk that smelt faintly of cocoa-butter. Right and left she flung coats and hats and trousers and band parts, selecting with a sure eye the properties which Mr. Mackwayte would require for the sketches he would play that evening. In the middle of it all the throbbing of a car echoed down the quiet road outside. Then there came a ring at the front door.

At half-past nine that night, Barbara found herself standing beside her father in the wings of the vast Palaceum stage. Just at her back was the little screened-off recess where Mr. Mackwayte was to make the quick changes that came in the course of his turn. Here, since her arrival in the theatre, Barbara had been busy laying out coats and hats and rigs and grease-paints on the little table below the mirror with its two brilliant electric bulbs, whilst Mr. Mackwayte was in his dressing-room upstairs changing into his first costume.

Now, old Mackwayte stood at her elbow in his rig-out as an old London bus-driver in the identical, characteristic clothes which he had worn for this turn for the past 25 years. He was far too old a hand to show any nervousness he might feel at the ordeal before him. He was chatting in undertones in his gentle, confidential way to the stage manager.

All around them was that curious preoccupied stillness—the hush of the power-house—which makes the false world of the stage so singularly unreal by contrast when watched from the back. The house was packed from floor to ceiling, for the Palaceum’s policy of breaking away from revue and going back to Mr. Mackwayte called “straight vaudeville” was triumphantly justifying itself.

Standing in the wings, Barbara could almost feel the electric current running between the audience and the comedian who, with the quiet deliberation of the finished artist, was going through his business on the stage. As he made each of his carefully studied points, he paused, confident of the vast rustle of laughter swelling into a hurricane of applause which never failed to come from the towering tiers of humanity before him, stretching away into the roof where the limelights blazed and spluttered. Save for the low murmur of voices at her side, the silence behind the scenes was absolute. No one was idle. Everyone was at his post, his attention concentrated on that diminutive little figure in the ridiculous clothes which the spot-lights tracked about the stage.

It was the high-water mark of modern music-hall development. The perfect smoothness of the organization gave Barbara a great feeling of contentment for she knew how happy her father must be. Everyone had been so kind to him. “I shall feel a stranger amongst the top-liners of today, my dear,” he had said to her in the car on their way to the hall. She had had no answer ready for she had feared he spoke the truth.

Yet everyone they had met had tried to show them that Arthur Mackwayte was not forgotten. The stage-door keeper had known him in the days of the old Aquarium and welcomed him by name. The comedian who preceded Mr. Mackwayte and who was on the stage at that moment had said, “Hullo, Mac! Come to give us young ’uns some tips?” And even now the stage manager was talking over old days with her father.

“You had a rough but good schooling, Mac,” he was saying, “but, by Jove, it gave us finished artists. If you saw the penny reading line that comes trying to get a job here... and gets it, by Gad!... it’d make you sick. I tell you I have my work cut out staving them off! It’s a pretty good show this week, though, and I’ve given you a good place, Mac... you’re in front of Nur-el-Din!”

“Nur-el-Din?” repeated Mr. Mackwayte, “what is it, Fletcher? A conjurer?”

“Good Lord, man, where have you been living?” replied Fletcher. “Nur-el-Din is the greatest vaudeville proposition since Lottie Collins. Conjurer! That’s what she is, too, by Jove! She’s the newest thing in Oriental dancers... Spaniard or something... wonderful clothes, what there is of ’em... and jewelry... wait till you see her!”

“Dear me,” said Mr. Mackwayte, “I’m afraid I’m a bit behind the times. Has she been appearing here long?”

“First appearance in London, old man, and she’s made good from the word ‘Go!’ She’s been in Paris and all over the Continent, and America, too, I believe, but she had to come to me to soar to the top of the bill. I saw at once where she belonged! She’s a real artiste, temperament, style and all that sort of thing and a damn good producer into the bargain! But the worst devil that ever escaped out of hell never had a wickeder temper! She and I fight all the time! Not a show, but she doesn’t keep the stage waiting! But I won! I won’t have her prima donna tricks in this theatre and so I’ve told her! Hullo, Georgie’s finishing...”

The great curtain switched down suddenly, drowning a cascade of applause, and a bundle of old clothes, twitching nerves, liquid perspiration and grease paint hopped off the stage into the centre of the group. An electric bell trilled, the limelights shut off, with a jerk that made the eyes ache, a back-cloth soared aloft and another glided down into its place, the comedian took two, three, four calls, then vanished into a horde of dim figures scuttling about in the gloom.

An electric bell trilled again and deep silence fell once more, broken only by the hissing of the lights.

“You ought to stop behind after your turn and see her, Mac,” the stage manager’s voice went on evenly. “All right, Jackson! On you go, Mac!”

Barbara felt her heart jump. Now for it, daddy!

The great curtain mounted majestically and Arthur Mackwayte, deputy turn, stumped serenely on to the stage.

CHAPTER II.
CAPTAIN STRANGWISE ENTERTAINS A GUEST

It was the slack hour at the Nineveh Hotel. The last groups about the tea-tables in the Palm Court had broken up, the Tzigane orchestra had stacked its instruments together on its little platform and gone home, and a gentle calm rested over the great hotel as the forerunner of the coming dinner storm.

The pre-dinner hour is the uncomfortable hour of the modern hotel de luxe. The rooms seem uncomfortably hot, the evening paper palls, it is too early to dress for dinner, so one sits yawning over the fire, longing for a fireside of one’s own. At least that is how it strikes one from the bachelor standpoint, and that is how it appeared to affect a man who was sitting hunched up in a big arm-chair in the vestibule of the Nineveh Hotel on this winter afternoon.

His posture spoke of utter boredom. He sprawled full length in his chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his eyes half-closed, various editions of evening papers strewn about the ground at his feet. He was a tall, well-groomed man, and his lithe, athletic figure looked very well in its neat uniform.

A pretty little woman who sat at one of the writing desks in the vestibule glanced at him more than once. He was the sort of man that women look at with interest. He had a long, shrewd, narrow head, the hair dark and close-cropped, a big, bold, aquiline nose, and a firm masterful chin, dominated by a determined line of mouth emphasised by a thin line of moustache. He would have been very handsome but for his eyes, which, the woman decided as she glanced at him, were set rather too close together. She thought she would prefer him as he was now, with his eyes glittering in the fire-light through their long lashes.

But what was most apparent was the magnificent physical fitness of the man. His was the frame of the pioneer, the man of the earth’s open spaces and uncharted wilds. He looked as hard as nails, and the woman murmured to herself, as she went on with her note, “On leave from the front.”

Presently, the man stirred, stretched himself and finally sat up. Then he started, sprang to his feet, and strode easily across the vestibule to the reception desk. An officer was standing there in a worn uniform, a very shabby kit-bag by his side, a dirty old Burberry over his arm.

“Okewood!” said the young man and touched the other on the shoulder, “isn’t it Desmond Okewood? By Jove, I am glad to see you!”

The new-comer turned quickly.

“Why, hullo,” he said, “if it isn’t Maurice Strangwise! But, good heavens, man, surely I saw your name in the casualty list... missing, wasn’t it?”

“Yep!” replied the other smiling, “that’s so! It’s a long story and it’ll keep! But tell me about yourself... this,” he kicked the kit-bag with the toe of his boot, “looks like a little leave! Just in from France?”

He smiled again, baring his firm, white teeth, and looking at him Desmond suddenly remembered, as one recalls a trifle, his trick of smiling. It was a frank enough smile but... well, some people smile too much.

“Got in just now by the leave train,” answered Desmond.

“How much leave have you got?” asked Strangwise.

“Well,” said the other, “it’s a funny thing, but I don’t know!”

“Say, are they giving unlimited leave over there now?”

Desmond laughed.

“Hardly,” he replied. “But the War Office just applied for me to come over and here I am! What they want me for, whether it’s to advise the War Council or to act as Quartermaster to the Jewish Battalion I can’t tell you! I shan’t know until tomorrow morning! In the meantime I’m going to forget the war for this evening!”

“What are you going to do to-night?” asked Strangwise.

Desmond began to check off on his fingers.

“Firstly, I’m going to fill the biggest bath in this hotel with hot water, get the biggest piece of Pears’ soap in London, and jump in: Then, if my tailor hasn’t betrayed me, I’m going to put on dress clothes, and whilst I am dressing summon Julien (if he’s maitre d’hôtel here) to a conference, then I’m going to eat the best dinner that this pub can provide. Then...”

Strangwise interrupted him.

“The bath is on you, if you like,” he said, “but the dinner’s on me and a show afterwards. I’m at a loose end, old man, and so are you, so we’ll hit up together! We’ll dine in the restaurant here at 7.30, and Julien shall come up to your room so that you can order the dinner. Is it a go?”

“Rather,” laughed Desmond, “I’ll eat your dinner, Maurice, and you shall tell me how you managed to break out of the casualty list into the Nineveh Hotel. But what do all these anxious-looking gentry want?”

The two officers turned to confront a group of four men who were surveying them closely. One of them, a fat, comfortable looking party with grizzled hair, on seeing Desmond, walked up to him.

“Hullo!” said Desmond, “it’s Tommy Spencer! How are you, Spencer? What’s the betting in Fleet Street on the war lasting another five years? Have you come to interview me?”

The tubby little man beamed and shook hands effusively.

“Glad to see you looking so well, Major,” he said, “It’s your friend we want...”

“What? Strangwise? Here, Maurice, come meet my friend Tommy Spencer of the “Daily Record,” whom I haven’t seen since we went on manoeuvres together down at Aldershot! Captain Strangwise, Tommy Spencer! Now, then, fire away; Spencer!”

Strangwise smiled and shook his head.

“I’m very pleased to know your friend, Desmond,” he said, “but, you know, I can’t talk! I had the strictest orders from the War Office... It’s on account of the other fellows, you know...”

Desmond looked blankly at him. Then he—turned to Spencer.

“You must let me into this, Spencer,” he said, “what’s old Maurice been up to? Has he been cashiered for wearing shoes or what?”

Spencer’s manner became a trifle formal.

“Captain Strangwise has escaped from a prisoners’ of war camp in Germany, Major,” he said, “we’ve been trying to get hold of him for days! He’s the talk of London!”

Desmond turned like a shot.

“Maurice!” he cried, “’pon my soul, I’m going to have an interesting evening... why, of course, you are just the sort of fellow to do a thing like that. But, Spencer, you know, it won’t do... fellows are never allowed to talk to the newspaper men about matters of this kind. And if you’re a good fellow, Spencer, you won’t even say that you have seen Strangwise here... you’ll only get him into trouble!”

The little man looked rather rueful.

“Oh, of course, Major, if you put it that way,” he said.

“... And you’ll use your influence to make those other fellows with you drop it, will you, Spencer? And then come along to the bar and we’ll have a drink for old times’ sake!”

Spencer seemed doubtful about the success of his representations to his colleagues but he obediently trotted away. Apparently, he succeeded in his mission for presently he joined the two officers alone in the American Bar.

“I haven’t seen Strangwise for six months, Spencer,” said Desmond over his second cocktail. “Seeing him reminds me how astonishing it is the way fellows drop apart in war. Old Maurice was attached to the Brigade of which I am the Brigade Major as gunner officer, and we lived together for the best part of three months, wasn’t it, Maurice? Then he goes back to his battery and the next thing I hear of him is that he is missing. And then I’m damned if he doesn’t turn up here!”

Spencer cocked an eye at Strangwise over his Martini.

“I’d like to hear your story, despite the restrictions,” he said.

Strangwise looked a trifle embarrassed.

“Maybe I’ll tell you one day,” he replied in his quiet way, “though, honestly, there’s precious little to tell...”

Desmond marked his confusion and respected him for it. He rushed in to the rescue.

“Spencer,” he said abruptly, “what’s worth seeing in London? We are going to a show to-night. I want to be amused, mark you, not elevated!”

“Nur-el-Din at the Palaceum,” replied the reporter.

“By Jove, we’ll go there,” said Desmond, turning to Maurice. “Have you ever seen her? I’m told she’s perfectly marvelous...”

“It’s an extraordinarily artistic turn,” said Spencer, “and they’re doing wonderful business at the Palaceum. You’d better go and see the show soon, though, for they tell me the lady is leaving the programme.”

“No!” exclaimed Strangwise so suddenly that Desmond turned round and stared at him. “I thought she was there for months yet...”

“They don’t want her to go,” answered Spencer, “she’s a perfect gold-mine to them but I gather the lady is difficult... in fact, to put it bluntly she’s making such a damn nuisance of herself with her artistic temperament that they can’t get on with her at all.”

“Do you know this lady of the artistic temperament, Maurice?” asked Desmond.

Strangwise hesitated a moment.

“I met her in Canada a few years ago,” he said slowly, “she was a very small star then. She’s a very handsome and attractive girl, in spite of our friend’s unfavorable verdict. There’s something curiously real about her dancing, too, that you don’t find in this sort of show as a rule!”

He stopped a moment, then added abruptly:

“We’ll go along to the Palaceum to-night, if you like, Desmond,” and Desmond joyfully acquiesced. To one who has been living for weeks in an ill-ventilated pill-box on the Passchendaele Ridge, the lights and music and color of a music-hall seem as a foretaste of Paradise.

And that was what Desmond Okewood thought as a few hours later he found himself with Maurice Strangwise in the stalls of the vast Palaceum auditorium. In the unwonted luxury of evening clothes he felt clean and comfortable, and the cigar he way smoking was the climax of one of Julien’s most esoteric efforts.

The cards on either side of the proscenium opening bore the words: “Deputy Turn.” On the stage was a gnarled old man with ruddy cheeks and a muffler. a seedy top hat on his head, a coaching whip in his hand, the old horse bus-driver of London in his habit as he had lived. The old fellow stood there and just talked to the audience of a fine sporting class of men that petrol has driven from the streets, without exaggerated humor or pathos. Desmond, himself a born Cockney, at once fell under the actor’s spell and found all memories of the front slipping away from him as the old London street characters succeeded one another on the stage. Then the orchestra blared out, the curtain descended, and the house broke into a great flutter of applause.

Desmond, luxuriating in his comfortable stall puffed at his cigar and fell into a pleasant reverie.

He was contrasting the ghastly nightmare of mud and horrors from which he had only just emerged with the scene of elegance, of civilization; around him.

Suddenly, his attention became riveted on the stage. The atmosphere of the theatre had changed. Always quick at picking up “influences,” Desmond instantly sensed a new mood in the throngs around him. A presence was in the theatre, an instinct-awakening, a material influence. The great audience was strangely hushed. The air was heavy with the scent of incense. The stringed instruments and oboes in the orchestra were wandering into rhythmic [Updater’s note: a line appears to be missing from the source here] dropped.

Maurice touched his elbow.

“There she is!” he said.

Desmond felt inclined to shake him off roughly. The interruption jarred on him. For he was looking at this strangely beautiful girl with her skin showing very brown beneath a wonderful silver tiara-like headdress, and in the broad interstices of a cloth-of-silver robe with short, stiffly wired-out skirt. She was seated, an idol, on a glittering black throne, at her feet with their tapering dyed nails a fantastically attired throng of worshipers.

The idol stirred into life, the music of the orchestra died away. Then a tom-tom began to beat its nervous pulse-stirring throb, the strident notes of a reed-pipe joined in and the dancer, raised on her toes on the dais, began to sway languorously to and fro. And so she swayed and swayed with sinuously curving limbs while the drums throbbed out faster with ever-shortening beats, with now and then a clash of brazen cymbals that was torture to overwrought nerves.

The dancer was the perfection of grace. Her figure was lithe and supple as a boy’s. There was a suggestion of fire and strength and agility about her that made one think of a panther as she postured there against a background of barbaric color. The grace of her movements, the exquisite blending of the colors on the stage, the skillful grouping of the throng of worshipers, made up a picture which held the audience spellbound and in silence until the curtain dropped.

Desmond turned to find Strangwise standing up.

“I thought of just running round behind the scenes for a few minutes,” he said carelessly.

“What, to see Nur-el-Din? By Jove, I’m coming, too!” promptly exclaimed Desmond.

Strangwise demurred. He didn’t quite know if he could take him: there might be difficulties: another time... But Desmond got up resolutely.

“I’ll be damned if you leave me behind, Maurice,” he laughed, “of course I’m coming, too! She’s the most delightful creature I’ve ever set eyes on!”

And so it ended by them going through the pass-door together.

CHAPTER III.
MR. MACKWAYTE MEETS AN OLD FRIEND

That night Nur-el-Din kept the stage waiting for five minutes. It was a climax of a long series of similar unpardonable crimes in the music-hall code. The result was that Mr. Mackwayte, after taking four enthusiastic “curtains,” stepped off the stage into a perfect pandemonium.

He found Fletcher, the stage manager, livid with rage, surrounded by the greater part of the large suite with which the dancer traveled. There was Madame’s maid, a trim Frenchwoman, Madame’s business manager, a fat, voluble Italian, Madame’s secretary, an olive-skinned South American youth in an evening coat with velvet collar, and Madame’s principal male dancer in a scanty Egyptian dress with grotesquely painted face. They were all talking at the same time, and at intervals Fletcher muttered hotly: “This time she leaves the bill or I walk out of the theatre!”

Then a clear voice cried:

“Me voila!” and a dainty apparition in an ermine wrap tripped into the centre of the group, tapped the manager lightly on the shoulder and said:

“Allons! I am ready!”

Mr. Mackwayte’s face creased its mask of paint into a thousand wrinkles. For, on seeing him, the dancer’s face lighted up, and, running to him with hands outstretched, she cried:

“Tiens! Monsieur Arthur!” while he ejaculated:

“Why, it’s little Marcelle!”

But now the stage manager interposed. He whisked Madame’s wrap off her with one hand and with the other, firmly propelled her on to the stage. She let him have his way with a merry smile, dark eyes and white teeth flashing, but as she went she said to Mr. Mackwayte:

“My friend, wait for me! Et puis nous causerons! We will ’ave a talk, n’est-ce pas?”

“A very old friend of mine, my dear,” Mr. Mackwayte said to Barbara when, dressed in his street clothes, he rejoined her in the wings where she stood watching Nur-el-Din dancing. “She was an acrobat in the Seven Duponts, a turn that earned big money in the old days. It must be... let’s see... getting on for twenty years since I last set eyes on her. She was a pretty kid in those days! God bless my soul! Little Marcelle a big star! It’s really most amazing!”

Directly she was off the stage, Nur-el-Din came straight to Mr. Mackwayte, pushing aside her maid who was waiting with her wrap.

“My friend,” she cooed in her pretty broken English, “I am so glad, so glad to see you. And this is your girl... ah! she ’as your eyes, Monsieur Arthur, your nice English gray eyes! Such a big girl... ah! but she make me feel old!”

She laughed, a pretty gurgling laugh, throwing back her head so that the diamond collar she was wearing heaved and flashed.

“But you will come to my room, hein?” she went on. “Marie, my wrap!” and she led the way to the lift.

Nur-el-Din’s spacious dressing-room seemed to be full of people and flowers. All her little court was assembled amid a perfect bower of hot-house blooms and plants. Head and shoulders above everybody else in the room towered the figure of an officer in uniform, with him another palpable Englishman in evening dress.

Desmond Okewood thought he had never seen anything in his life more charming than the picture the dancer made as she came into the room. Her wrap had fallen open and beneath the broad bars of her cloth-of-silver dress her bosom yet rose and fell after the exertions of her dance. A jet black curl had strayed out from beneath her lofty silver head-dress, and she thrust it back in its place with one little brown bejeweled hand whilst she extended the other to Strangwise.

“Tiens, mon capitaine!” she said. Desmond was watching her closely, fascinated by her beauty, but noticed an unwilling, almost a hostile tone, in her voice.

Strangwise was speaking in his deep voice.

“Marcelle,” he said, “I’ve brought a friend who is anxious to meet you. Major Desmond Okewood! He and I soldiered together in France!” The dancer turned her big black eyes full on Desmond as she held out her hand to him.

“Old friends, new friends,” she cried, clapping, her hands like a child, “I love friends. Captaine, here is a very old friend,” she said to Strangwise as Mr. Mackwayte and Barbara came into the rooms, “Monsieur Arthur Mackwayte and ’is daughter. I ’ave know Monsieur Arthur almos’ all my life. And, Mademoiselle, permit me? I introduce le Captaine Strangwise and ’is friend... what is the name? Ah, Major Okewood!”

Nur-el-Din sank into a bergère chair beside her great mirror.

“There are too many in this room,” she cried, “there is no air! Lazarro, Ramiro, all of you, go outside, my friends!”

As Madame’s entourage surged out, Strangwise said:

“I hear you are leaving the Palaceum, Marcelle!”

He spoke so low that Mr. Mackwayte and Barbara, who were talking to Desmond, did not hear. Marcelle, taking off her heavy head-dress, answered quickly:

“Who told you that?”

“Never mind,” replied Strangwise. “But you never told me you were going. Why didn’t you?”

His voice was stern and hard now, very different from his usual quiet and mellow tones. But he was smiling.

Marcelle cast a glance over her shoulder. Barbara was looking round the room and caught the reflection of the dancer’s face in a mirror hanging on the wall. To her intense astonishment, she saw a look of despair, almost of terror, in Nur-el-Din’s dark eyes. It was like the frightened stare of some hunted beast. Barbara was so much taken aback that she instinctively glanced over her shoulder at the door, thinking that the dancer had seen something there to frighten her. But the door was shut. When Barbara looked into the mirror again, she saw only the reflection of Nur-el-Din’s pretty neck and shoulders. The dancer was talking again in low tones to Strangwise.

But Barbara swiftly forgot that glimpse of the dancer’s face in the glass. For she was very happy. Happiness, like high spirits, is eminently contagious, and the two men at her side were supremely content.

Her father’s eyes were shining with his little success of the evening: on the way upstairs Fletcher had held out hopes to him of a long engagement at the Palaceum while as for the other, he was radiant with the excitement of his first night in town after long months of campaigning.

He was thinking that his leave had started most propitiously. After a man has been isolated for months amongst muddy masculinity, the homeliest woman will find favor in his eyes. And to neither of these women, in whose presence he so unexpectedly found himself within a few hours of landing in England, could the epithet “homely” be applied. Each represented a distinct type of beauty in herself, and Desmond, as he chatted with Barbara, was mentally contrasting the two women. Barbara, tall and slim and very healthy, with her braided brown hair, creamy complexion and gray eyes, was essentially English. She was the typical woman of England, of England of the broad green valleys and rolling downs and snuggling hamlets, of England of the white cliffs gnawed by the restless ocean. The other was equally essentially a woman of the South. Her dark eyes, her upper lip just baring her firm white teeth, spoke of hot Latin or gypsy blood surging in her veins. Hers was the beauty of the East, sensuous, arresting, conjuring up pictures of warm, perfumed nights, the thrumming of guitars, a great yellow moon hanging low behind the palms.

“Barbara!” called Nur-el-Din from the dressing table. Mr. Mackwayte had joined her there and was chatting to Strangwise.

“You will stay and talk to me while I change n’est-ce pas? Your papa and these gentlemen are going to drink a whiskey-soda with that animal Fletcher... quel homme terrible... and you shall join them presently.”

The men went out, leaving Barbara alone with the dancer. Barbara noticed how tired Nur-el-Din was looking. Her pretty, childish ways seemed to have evaporated with her high spirits. Her face was heavy and listless. There were lines round her eyes, and her mouth had a hard, drawn look.

“Child,” she said, “give me, please, my peignoir... it is behind the door,... and, I will get this paint off my face!”

Barbara fetched the wrapper and sat down beside the dancer. But Nur-el-Din did not move. She seemed to be thinking. Barbara saw the hunted look she had already observed in her that evening creeping over her face again.

“It is a hard life; this life of ours, a life of change, ma petite! A great artiste has no country, no home, no fireside! For the past five years I have been roaming about the world! Often I think I will settle down, but the life holds me!”

She took up from her dressing-table a little oblong plain silver box.

“I want to ask you a favor, ma petite Barbara!” she said. “This little box is a family possession of mine: I have had it for many years. The world is so disturbed to-day that life is not safe for anybody who travels as much as I do! You have a home, a safe home with your dear father! He was telling me about it! Will you take this little box and keep it safely for me until... until... the war is over... until I ask you for it?”

“Yes, of course,” said Barbara, “if you wish it, though, what with these air raids, I don’t know that London is particularly safe, either.”

“Ah! that is good of you,” cried Nur-el-Din, “anyhow, the little box is safer with you than with me. See, I will wrap it up and seal it, and then you will take it home with you, n’est-ce pas?”

She opened a drawer and swiftly hunting among its contents produced a sheet of white paper, and some sealing-wax. She wrapped the box in the paper and sealed it up, stamping the seals with a camel signet ring she drew off her finger. Then she handed the package to Barbara.

There was a knock at the door. The maid, noiselessly arranging Madame’s dresses in the corner opened it.

“You will take care of it well for me,” the dancer said to Barbara, and her voice vibrated with a surprising eagerness, “you will guard it preciously until I come for it...” She laughed and added carelessly: “Because it is a family treasure, a life mascotte of mine, hein?”

Then they heard Strangwise’s deep voice outside.

Nur-el-Din started.

“Le Captaine is there, Madame,” said the French maid, “’e say Monsieur Mackwayte ask for Mademoiselle!”

The dancer thrust a little hand from the folds of her silken kimono.

“Au revoir, ma petite,” she said, “we shall meet again. You will come and see me, n’est-ce pas? And say nothing to anybody about...” she pointed to Barbara’s bag where the little package was reposing, “it shall be a secret between us, hein? Promise me this, mon enfant!”

“Of course, I promise, if you like!” said Barbara, wonderingly.

At half-past eight the next morning Desmond Okewood found himself in the ante-room of the Chief of the Secret Service in a cross and puzzled mood. The telephone at his bedside had roused him at 8 a.m. from the first sleep he had had in a real bed for two months. In a drowsy voice he had protested that he had an appointment at the War Office at 10 o’clock, but a curt voice had bidden him dress himself and come to the Chief forthwith. Here he was, accordingly, breakfastless, his chin smarting from a hasty shave. What the devil did the Chief want with him anyhow? He wasn’t in the Secret Service, though his brother, Francis, was.

A voice broke in upon his angry musing.

“Come in, Okewood!” it said.

The Chief stood at the door of his room, a broad-shouldered figure in a plain jacket suit. Desmond had met him before. He knew him for a man of many questions but of few confidences, yet his recollection of him was of a suave, imperturbable personality. To-day, however, the Chief seemed strangely preoccupied. There was a deep line between his bushy eyebrows as he bent them at Desmond, motioning him to a chair. When he spoke, his manner was very curt.

“What time did you part from the Mackwaytes at the theatre last night?”

Desmond was dumbfounded. How on earth did the Chief know about his visit to the Palaceum? Still, he was used to the omniscience of the British Intelligence, so he answered promptly:

“It was latish, sir; about midnight, I think!”

“They went home to Seven Kings alone!”

“Yes, sir, in a taxi!” Desmond replied.

The Chief contemplated his blotting-pad gloomily. Desmond knew it for a trick of his when worried.

“Did you have a good night?” he said to Desmond, suddenly.

“Yes,” he said, not in the least understanding the drift of the question. “... though I didn’t mean to get up quite so early!”

The Chief ignored this sally.

“Nothing out of the ordinary happened during the night, I suppose?” he asked again.

Desmond shook his head.

“Nothing that I know of, sir,” he said.

“Seen Strangwise this morning?”

Desmond gasped for breath. So the Chief knew about him meeting Strangwise, too!

“No, sir!”

A clerk put his head in at the door.

“Well, Matthews!”

“Captain Strangwise will be along very shortly, sir,” he said.

The Chief looked up quickly.

“Ah, he’s all right then! Good.”

“And, sir,” Matthews added, “Scotland Yard telephoned to say that the doctor is with Miss Mackwayte now.”

Desmond started up.

“Is Miss Mackwayte ill?” he exclaimed.

The Chief answered slowly, as Matthews withdrew: “Mr. Mackwayte was found murdered at his house early this morning!”

CHAPTER IV.
MAJOR OKEWOOD ENCOUNTERS A NEW TYPE

There is a sinister ring about the word “murder,” which reacts upon even the most hardened sensibility. Edgar Allan Poe, who was a master of the suggestive use of words, realized this when he called the greatest detective story ever written “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.” From the very beginning of the war, Desmond had seen death in all its forms but that word “murdered,” spoken with slow emphasis in the quiet room, gave him an ugly chill feeling round the heart that he had never experienced on the battlefield.

“Murdered!” Desmond repeated dully and sat down. He felt stunned. He was not thinking of the gentle old man cruelly done to death or of the pretty Barbara prostrate with grief. He was overawed by the curious fatality that had plucked him from the horrors of Flanders only to plunge him into a tragedy at home.

“Yes,” said the Chief bluntly, “by a burglar apparently—the house was ransacked!”

“Chief,” he broke out, “you must explain. I’m all at sea! Why did you send for me? What have you got to do with criminal cases, anyway? Surely, this is a Scotland Yard matter!”

The Chief shook his head.

“I sent for you in default of your brother, Okewood!” he said. “You once refused an offer of mine to take you into my service, but this time I had to have you, so I got the War Office to wire...”

“Then my appointment for ten o’clock to-day was with you?” Desmond exclaimed in astonishment.

The Chief nodded.

“It was,” he said curtly.

“But,” protested Desmond feebly, “did you know about this murder beforehand!”

The Chief threw back his head and laughed.

“My dear fellow,” he said; “I’m not quite so deep as all that. I haven’t second sight, you know!”

“You’ve got something devilish like it, sir!” said Desmond. “How on earth did you know that I was at the Palaceum last night?”

The Chief smiled grimly.

“Oh, that’s very simple,” he said. “Shall I tell you some more about yourself? You sat...” he glanced down at the desk in front of him,”... in Stall E 52 and, after Nur-el-Din’s turn, Strangwise took you round and introduced you to the lady. In her dressing-room you met Mr. Mackwayte and his daughter. After that...”

“But,” Desmond interrupted quickly, “I must have been followed by one of your men. Still, I can’t see why my movements should interest the Secret Service, sir!”

The Chief remained silent for a moment. Then he said:

“Fate often unexpectedly takes a hand in this game of ours, Okewood. I sent for you to come back from France but old man Destiny wouldn’t leave it at that. Almost as soon as you landed he switched you straight on to a trail that I have been patiently following up for months past. That trail is...”

The telephone on the desk rang sharply.

“Whose trail?” Desmond could not forbear to ask as the Chief took off the receiver.

“Just a minute,” the Chief said. Then he spoke into the telephone:

“Marigold? Yes. Really? Very well, I’ll come straight along now... I’ll be with you in twenty minutes. Good-bye!”

He put down the receiver and rose to his feet.

“Okewood,” he cried gaily, “what do you say to a little detective work? That was Marigold of the Criminal Investigation Department... he’s down at Seven Kings handling this murder case. I asked him to let me know when it would be convenient for me to come along and have a look round, and he wants me to go now. Two heads are better than one. You’d better come along!”

He pressed a button on the desk.

The swift and silent Matthews appeared.

“Matthews,” he said, “when Captain Strangwise comes, please tell him I’ve been called away and ask him to call back here at two o’clock to see me.”

He paused and laid a lean finger reflectively along his nose.

“Are you lunching anywhere, Okewood?” he said. Desmond shook his head.

“Then you will lunch with me, eh? Right. Come along and we’ll try to find the way to Seven Kings.”

The two men threaded the busy corridors to the lift which deposited them at the main entrance. A few minutes later the Chief was dexterously guiding his Vauxhall car through the crowded traffic of the Strand, Desmond beside him on the front seat.

Desmond was completely fogged in his mind. He couldn’t see light anywhere. He asked himself in vain what possible connection could exist between this murder in an obscure quarter of London and the man at his side who, he knew, held in his firm hands lines that stretched to the uttermost ends of the earth? What kind of an affair was this, seemingly so commonplace that could take the Chief’s attention from the hundred urgent matters of national security that occupied him?

The Chief seemed absorbed in his driving and Desmond felt it would be useless to attempt to draw him out. They wended their way through the city and out into the squalid length of the Mile End Road. Then the Chief began to talk.

“I hate driving through the City,” he exclaimed, “but I always think it’s good for the nerves. Still, I have a feeling that I shall smash this old car up some day. That friend of yours, Strangwise, now he’s a remarkable man! Do you know his story?”

“About his escape from Germany?” asked Desmond.

The Chief nodded.

“He told me something about it at dinner last night,” said Desmond, “but he’s such a modest chap he doesn’t seem to like talking about it!”

“He must have a cool nerve,” replied the Chief, “he doesn’t know a word of German, except a few scraps he picked up in camp. Yet, after he got free, he made his way alone from somewhere in Hanover clear to the Dutch frontier. And I tell you he kept his eyes and ears open!”

“Was he able to tell you anything good” asked Desmond.

“The man’s just full of information. He couldn’t take a note of any kind, of course, but he seems to have a wonderful memory. He was able to give us the names of almost every unit of troops he came across.”

He stopped to skirt a tram, then added suddenly:

“Do you know him well, Okewood?”

“Yes, I think I do,” said Desmond. “I lived with him for about three months in France, and we got on top-hole together. He’s a man absolutely without fear.”

“Yes,” agreed the Chief. “But what about his judgment? Would you call him a well-balanced fellow? Or is he one of these harum-scarum soldier of fortune sort of chaps?”

“I should say he was devilish shrewd,” replied the other. “Strangwise is a very able fellow and a fine soldier. The Brigadier thought a lot of him. There’s very little about artillery work that Strangwise doesn’t know. Our Brigadier’s a good judge, too... he was a gunner himself once, you know.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” answered the Chief, “because there are some things he has told us, about the movements of troops, particularly, that don’t agree in the least with our own Intelligence reports. I am an old enough hand at my job to know that very often one man may be right where fifty independent witnesses are dead wrong. Yet our reports from Germany have been wonderfully accurate on the whole.”

He stopped.

“Tell me,” he asked suddenly, “is Strangwise a liar, do you think?”

Desmond laughed. The question was so very unexpected.

“Let me explain what I mean,” said the Chief. “There is a type of man who is quite incapable of telling the plain, unvarnished truth. That type of fellow might have the most extraordinary adventure happen to him and yet be unable to let it stand on its merits. When he narrates it, he trims it up with all kinds of embroidery. Is Strangwise that type?”

Desmond thought a moment.

“Your silence is very eloquent,” said the Chief drily.

Desmond laughed.

“It’s not the silence of consent,” he said, “but if you want me to be quite frank about Strangwise, Chief, I don’t mind telling you I don’t like him overmuch. We were very intimate in France. We were in some very tight corners together and he never let me down. He showed himself to be a very fine fellow, indeed. There are points about him I admire immensely. I love his fine physique, his manliness. I’m sure he’s got great strength of character, too. It’s because I admire all this about him that I think perhaps it’s just jealousy on my part when I feel...”

“What?” said the Chief.

“Well,” said Desmond slowly, “I feel myself trying to like something below the surface in the man. And then I am balked. There seems to be something abysmally deep behind the facade, if you know what I mean. If I think about it much, it seems to me that there is too much surface about Strangwise and not enough foundation! And he smiles... Well, rather often, doesn’t he?”

“I know what you mean,” said the Chief. “I always tell my young men to be wary when a man smiles too much. Smiles are sometimes camouflage, to cover up something that mustn’t be seen underneath! Strangwise is a Canadian, isn’t he?”

“I think so,” answered Desmond, “anyhow, he has lived there. But he got his commission over here. He came over some time in 1915, I believe, and joined up.”

“Ah, here we are!” cried the Chief, steering the car down a turning marked “Laleham Villas.”

Laleham Villas proved to be an immensely long terrace of small two-story houses, each one exactly like the other, the only difference between them lying in the color of the front doors and the arrangement of the small strip of garden in front of each. The houses stretched away on either side in a vista of smoke-discolored yellow brick. The road was perfectly straight and, in the dull yellow atmosphere of the winter morning, unspeakably depressing.

The abode of small clerks and employees, Laleham Villas had rendered up, an hour before, its daily tribute of humanity to the City-bound trains of the Great Eastern Railway. The Mackwayte’s house was plainly indicated, about 200 yards down on the right-hand side, by a knot of errand boys and bareheaded women grouped on the side-walk. A large, phlegmatic policeman stood at the gate.

“You’ll like Marigold,” said the Chief to Desmond as they got out of the car, “quite a remarkable man and very sound at his work!”

British officers don’t number detective inspectors among their habitual acquaintances, and the man that came out of the house to meet them was actually the first detective that Desmond had ever met. Ever since the Chief had mentioned his name, Desmond had been wondering whether Mr. Marigold would be lean and pale and bewildering like Mr. Sherlock Holmes or breezy and wiry like the detectives in American crook plays.

The man before him did not bear the faintest resemblance to either type. He was a well-set up, broad-shouldered person of about forty-five, very carefully dressed in a blue serge suit and black overcoat, with a large, even-tempered countenance, which sloped into a high forehead. The neatly brushed but thinning locks carefully arranged across the top of the head testified to the fact that Mr. Marigold had sacrificed most of his hair to the vicissitudes of his profession. When it is added that the detective had a small, yellow moustache and a pleasant, cultivated voice, there remains nothing further to say about Mr. Marigold’s external appearance. But there was something so patent about the man, his air of reserve, his careful courtesy, his shrewd eyes, that Desmond at once recognized him for a type, a cast from a certain specific mould. All services shape men to their own fashion. There is the type of Guardsman, the type of airman, the type of naval officer. And Desmond decided that Mr. Marigold must be the type of detective, though, as I have said, he was totally unacquainted with the genus.

“Major Okewood, Marigold,” said the Chief, “a friend of mine!”

Mr. Marigold mustered Desmond in one swift, comprehensive look.

“I won’t give you my hand, Major,” the detective said, looking down at Desmond’s proffered one, “for I’m in a filthy mess and no error. But won’t you come in, sir?” he said to the Chief and led the way across the mosaic tile pathway to the front door which stood open.

“I don’t think this is anything in your line, sir,” said Mr. Marigold to the Chief as the three men entered the house, “it’s nothing but just a common burglary. The old man evidently heard a noise and coming down, surprised the burglar who lost his head and killed him. The only novel thing about the whole case is that the old party was shot with a pistol and not bludgeoned, as is usually the case in affairs of this kind. And I shouldn’t have thought that the man who did it was the sort that carries a gun...”

“Then you know who did it?” asked the Chief quietly.

“I think I can safely say I do, sir,” said Mr. Marigold with the reluctant air of one who seldom admits anything to be a fact, “I think I can go as far as that! And we’ve got our man under lock and key!”

“That’s a smart piece of work, Marigold,” said the Chief.

“No, sir,” replied the other, “you could hardly call it that. He just walked into the arms of a constable over there near Goodmayes Station with the swag on him. He’s an old hand... we’ve known him for a receiver for years!

“Who is it?” asked the Chief, “not one of my little friends, I suppose, eh, Marigold!”

“Dear me, no, sir,” answered Mr. Marigold, chuckling, “it’s one of old Mackwayte’s music-hall pals, name o’ Barney!”

CHAPTER V.
THE MURDER AT SEVEN KINGS

“This is Mrs. Chugg, sir,” said Mr. Marigold, “the charwoman who found the body!”

The Chief and Desmond stood at the detective’s side in the Mackwaytes’ little dining-room. The room was in considerable disorder. There was a litter of paper, empty bottles, overturned cruets and other débris on the floor, evidence of the thoroughness with which the burglar had overhauled the cheap fumed oak sideboard which stood against the wall with doors and drawers open. In the corner, the little roll-top desk showed a great gash in the wood round the lock where it had been forced. The remains of a meal still stood on the table.

Mrs. Chugg, a diminutive, white-haired, bespectacled woman in a rusty black cape and skirt, was enthroned in the midst of this scene of desolation. She sat in an armchair by the fire, her hands in her lap, obviously supremely content with the position of importance she enjoyed. At the sound of Mr. Marigold’s voice, she bobbed up and regarded the newcomers with the air of a tragedy queen.

“Yus mister,” she said with the slow deliberation of one who thoroughly enjoys repeating an oft-told tale, “I found the pore man and a horrid turn it give me, too, I declare! I come in early this morning a-purpose to turn out these two rooms, the dining-room and the droring-room, same as I always do of a Saturday, along of the lidy’s horders and wishes. I come in ’ere fust, to pull up the blinds and that, and d’reckly I switches on the light ‘Burglars!’ I sez to meself, ‘Burglars! That’s wot it is!’ seeing the nasty mess the place was in. Up I nips to Miss Mackwayte’s room on the first floor and in I bursts. ‘Miss,’ sez I, ‘Miss, there’s been burglars in the house!’ and then I sees the pore lamb all tied up there on ’er blessed bed! Lor, mister, the turn it give me and I ain’t telling you no lies! She was strapped up that tight with a towel crammed in ’er mouth she couldn’t ’ardly dror ’er breath! I undid ’er pretty quick and the fust thing she sez w’en I gets the towl out of her mouth, the pore dear, is ‘Mrs. Chugg,’ she sez all of a tremble as you might say, ‘Mrs. Chugg’ sez she, ‘my father! my father!’ sez she. With that up she jumps but she ’adn’t put foot to the floor w’en down she drops! It was along of ’er being tied up orl that time, dyer see, mister! I gets ’er back on the bed. ‘You lie still, Miss,’ says I, ‘and I’ll pop in and tell your pa to come in to you!’ Well; I went to the old genelmun’s room. Empty!”

Mrs. Chugg paused to give her narrative dramatic effect.

“And where did you find Mr. Mackwayte?” asked the Chief in such a placid voice that Mrs. Chugg cast an indignant glance at him.

“I was jes’ going downstairs to see if ’e was in the kitching or out at the back,” she continued, unheeding the interruption, “when there on the landing I sees a foot asticking out from under the curting. I pulls back the curting and oh, Lor! oh, dear, oh, dear, the pore genelmun, ’im as never did a bad turn to no one!”

“Come, come, Mrs. Chugg!” said the detective.

The charwoman wiped her eyes and resumed.

“’E was a-lying on his back in ’is dressing-gown, ’is face all burnt black, like, and a fair smother o’ blood. Under ’is hed there was a pool o’ blood, mister, yer may believe me or not...”

Mr. Marigold cut in decisively.

“Do you wish to see the body, sir?” the detective asked the Chief, “they’re upstairs photographing it!”

The Chief nodded. He and Desmond followed the detective upstairs, whilst Mrs. Chugg resentfully resumed her seat by the fire. On her face was the look of one who has cast pearls before swine.

“Any finger-prints?” asked the Chief in the hall.

“Oh, no,” he said, “Barney’s far too old a hand for that sort o’ thing!”

The landing proved to be a small space, covered with oilcloth and raised by a step from the bend made by the staircase leading to the first story. On the left-hand side was a window looking on a narrow passage separating the Mackwayte house from its neighbors and leading to the back-door. By the window stood a small wicker-work table with a plant on it. At the back of the landing was a partition, glazed half-way up and a door—obviously the bath-room.

The curtain had been looped right over its brass rod. The body lay on its back at the foot of the table, arms flung outward, one leg doubled up, the other with the foot just jutting out over the step leading down to the staircase. The head pointed towards the bath-room door. Over the right eye the skin of the face was blackened in a great patch and there was a large blue swelling, like a bruise, in the centre. There was a good deal of blood on the face which obscured the hole made by the entrance of the bullet. The eyes were half-closed. A big camera, pointed downwards, was mounted on a high double ladder straddling the body and was operated by a young man in a bowler hat who went on with his work without taking the slightest notice of the detective and his companions.

“Close range,” murmured Desmond, after glancing at the dead man’s face, “a large calibre automatic pistol, I should think!”

“Why do you think it was a large calibre pistol, Major?” asked Mr. Marigold attentively.

“I’ve seen plenty of men killed at close range by revolver and rifle bullets out at the front,” replied Desmond, “but I never saw a man’s face messed up like this. In a raid once I shot a German at point blank range with my revolver, the ordinary Army issue pattern, and I looked him over after. But it wasn’t anything like this. The only thing I’ve seen approaching it was one of our sergeants who was killed out on patrol by a Hun officer who put his gun right in our man’s face. That sergeant was pretty badly marked, but...”

He shook his head. Then he added, addressing the detective: “Let’s see the gun! Have you got it?”

Mr. Marigold shook his head.

“He hadn’t got it on him,” he answered, “he swears he never had a gun. I expect he chucked it away somewhere. It’ll be our business to find it for him!”

He smiled rather grimly, then added:

“Perhaps you’d care to have a look at Miss Mackwayte’s room, sir!”

“Is Miss Mackwayte there” asked the Chief.

“I got her out of this quick,” replied Mr. Marigold, “she’s had a bad shock, poor girl, though she gave her evidence clearly enough for all that... as far as it goes and that’s not much. Some friends near by have taken her in! The doctor has given her some bromide and says she’s got to be kept quiet...”

“What’s her story!” queried the Chief.

“She can’t throw much light on the business. She and her father reached home from the theatre about a quarter past twelve, had a bit of supper in the dining-room and went up to bed before one o’clock. Miss Mackwayte saw her father go into his room, which is next to hers, and shut the door. The next thing she knows is that she woke up suddenly with some kind of a loud noise in her ears... that was the report of the pistol, I’ve no doubt... she thought for a minute it was an air raid. Then suddenly a hand was pressed over her mouth, something was crammed into her mouth and she was firmly strapped down to the bed.”

“Did she see the man?” asked Desmond.

“She didn’t see anything from first to last,” answered the detective, “as far as she is concerned it might have been a woman or a black man who trussed her up. It was quite dark in her bedroom and this burglar fellow, after binding and gagging her, fastened a bandage across her eyes into the bargain. She says she heard him moving about her room and then creep out very softly. The next thing she knew was Mrs. Chugg arriving at her bedside this morning.”

“What time did this attack take place?” asked the Chief.

“She has no idea,” answered the detective. “She couldn’t see her watch and they haven’t got a striking clock in the house.”

“But can she make no guess!”

“Well, she says she thinks it was several hours before Mrs. Chugg arrived in the morning... as much as three hours, she thinks!”

“And what time did Mrs. Chugg arrive!”

“At half-past six!”

“About Mackwayte... how long was he dead when they found him? What does the doctor say?”

“About three hours approximately, but you know, they can’t always tell to an hour or so!”

“Well,” said the Chief slowly, “it looks as if one might figure the murder as having been committed some time between 3 and 3.30 a.m.”

“My idea exactly,” said Mr. Marigold. “Shall we go upstairs?”

He conducted the Chief and Desmond up the short flight of stairs to the first story. He pushed open the first door he came to.

“Mackwayte’s room, on the back,” he said, “bed slept in, as you see, old gentleman’s clothes on a chair—obviously he was disturbed by some noise made by the burglar and came out to see what was doing! And here,” he indicated a door adjoining, “is Miss Mackwayte’s room, on the front; as you observe. They don’t use the two rooms on the second floor, except for box-rooms... one’s full of old Mackwayte’s theatre trunks and stuff. They keep no servant; Mrs. Chugg comes in each morning and stays all day. She goes away after supper every evening.”

Desmond found himself looking into a plainly furnished but dainty bedroom with white furniture and a good deal of chintz about. There were some photographs and pictures hanging on the walls. The room was spotlessly clean and very tidy.

Desmond remarked on this, asking if the police had put the room straight.

Mr. Marigold looked quite shocked.

“Oh, no, everything is just as it was when Mrs. Chugg found Miss Mackwayte this morning. There’s Miss Mackwayte’s gloves and handbag on the toilet-table just as she left ’em last night. I wouldn’t let her touch her clothes even. She went over to Mrs. Appleby’s in her dressing-gown, in a taxi.”

“Then Master Burglar didn’t burgle this room?” asked the Chief.

“Nothing touched, not even the girl’s money,” replied Marigold.

“Then why did he come up here at all?” asked Desmond.

“Obviously, the old gentleman disturbed him,” was the detective’s reply. “Barney got scared and shot the old gentleman, then came up here to make sure that the daughter would not give him away before he could make his escape. He must have known the report of the gun would wake her up.”

“But are there no clues or finger-prints or anything of that kind here, Marigold?” asked the Chief.

“Not a finger-print anywhere,” responded the other, “men like Barney are born wise to the fingerprint business, sir.”

He dipped a finger and thumb into his waistcoat pocket.

“Clues? Well, I’ve got one little souvenir here which I daresay a writer of detective stories would make a good bit of.”

He held in his hand a piece of paper folded flat. He unfolded it and disclosed a loop of dark hair.

“There!” he said mockingly, straightening out the hair and holding it up in the light. “That’s calculated to set one’s thoughts running all over the place, isn’t it? That piece of hair was caught in the buckle of one of the straps with which Miss Mackwayte was bound to the bed. Miss Mackwayte, I would point out, has brown hair. Whose hair do you think that is?”

Desmond looked closely at the strand of hair in the detective’s fingers. It was long and fine and glossy and jetblack.

The Chief laughed and shook his head.

“Haven’t an idea, Marigold,” he answered, “Barney’s, I should imagine, that is, if he goes about with black ringlets falling round his shoulders.”

“Barney?” echoed the detective. “Barney’s as bald as I am. Besides, if you saw his sheet, you’d realize that he has got into the habit of wearing his hair short!”

He carefully rolled the strand of hair up, replaced it in its paper and stowed it in his waistcoat pocket.

“It just shows how easily one is misled in a matter of this kind,” he went on. “Supposing Barney hadn’t got himself nabbed, supposing I hadn’t been able to find out from Miss Mackwayte her movements on the night previous to the murder, that strand of hair might have led me on a fine wild goose chase!”

“But, damn it, Marigold,” exclaimed the Chief, laughing, “you haven’t told us whose hair it is?”

“Why, Nur-el-Din’s, of course!”

The smile froze on the Chief’s lips, the laughter died out of his eyes. Desmond was amazed at the change in the man. The languid interest he had taken in the different details of the crime vanished. Something seemed to tighten up suddenly in his face and manner.

“Why Nur-el-Din?” he asked curtly.

Mr. Marigold glanced quickly at him. Desmond remarked that the detective was sensible of the change too.

“Simply because Miss Mackwayte spent some time in the dancer’s dressing-room last night, sir,” he replied quietly, “she probably sat at her dressing-table and picked up this hair in hers or in her veil or something and it dropped on the bed where one of Master Barney’s buckles caught it up.”

He spoke carelessly but Desmond noticed that he kept a watchful eye on the other.

The Chief did not answer. He seemed to have relapsed into the preoccupied mood in which Desmond had found him that morning.

“I was going to suggest, sir,” said Mr. Marigold diffidently, “if you had the time, you might care to look in at the Yard, and see the prisoner. I don’t mind telling you that he is swearing by all the tribes of Judah that he’s innocent of the murder of old Mackwayte. He’s got an amazing yarn... perhaps you’d like to hear it!”

Mr. Marigold suddenly began to interest Desmond. His proposal was put forward so modestly that one would have thought the last thing he believed possible was that the Chief should acquiesce in his suggestion. Yet Desmond had the feeling that the detective was far from being so disinterested as he wished to seem. It struck Desmond that the case was more complicated than Mr. Marigold admitted and that the detective knew it. Had Mr. Marigold discovered that the Chief knew a great deal more about this mysterious affair than the detective knew himself? And was not his attitude of having already solved the problem of the murder, his treatment of the Chief as a dilettante criminologist simply an elaborate pose, to extract from the Chief information which had not been proffered?

The Chief glanced at his watch.

“Right,” he said, “I think I’d like to go along.”

“I have a good deal to do here still,” observed Mr. Marigold, “so, if you don’t mind, I won’t accompany you. But perhaps, sir, you would like to see me this afternoon?”

The Chief swung round on his heel and fairly searched Mr. Marigold with a glance from beneath his bushy eyebrows. The detective returned his gaze with an expression of supreme innocence.

“Why, Marigold,” answered the Chief, “I believe I should. Six o’clock suit you?”

“Certainly, sir,” said Mr. Marigold.

Desmond stood by the door, vastly amused by this duel of wits. The Chief and Mr. Marigold made a move towards the door, Desmond turned to open it and came face to face with a large framed photograph of the Chief hanging on the wall of Miss Mackwayte’s bedroom.

“Why, Chief,” he cried, “you never told me you knew Miss Mackwayte!”

The Chief professed to be very taken aback by this question. “Dear me, didn’t I, Okewood?” he answered with eyes laughing, “she’s my secretary!”

CHAPTER VI.
“NAME O’BARNEY”

“Miss Mackwayte telephoned to ask if I could go and see her,” said the Chief to Desmond as they motored back to White hall, “Marigold gave me the message just as we were coming out. She asked if I could come this afternoon. I’m going to send you in my place, Okewood. I’ve got a conference with the head of the French Intelligence at three, and the Lord knows when I shall get away. I’ve a notion that you and Miss Mackwayte will work very well together.”

“Certainly,” said Desmond, “she struck me as being a very charming and clever girl. Now I know the source of your information about my movements last night!”

“That you certainly don’t!” answered the Chief promptly, “if I thought you did Duff and No.39 should be sacked on the spot!”

“Then it wasn’t Miss Mackwayte who told you?”

“I haven’t seen or heard from Miss Mackwayte since she left my office yesterday evening. You were followed!”

“But why?”

“I’ll tell you all about it at, lunch!”

Bated once more, Desmond retired into his shell. By this he was convinced of the utter impossibility of making the Chief vouchsafe any information except voluntarily.

Mr. Marigold had evidently announced their coming to Scotland Yard, for a very urbane and delightful official met them at the entrance and conducted them to a room where the prisoner was already awaiting them in charge of a plain clothes man. There the official excused himself and retired, leaving them alone with the prisoner and his escort.

Barney proved to be a squat, podgy, middle-aged Jew of the familiar East End Polish or Russian type. He had little black beady eyes, a round fat white face, and a broad squabby Mongol nose. His clothes were exceedingly seedy, and the police had confiscated his collar and tie. This absence of neckwear, coupled with the fact that the lower part of his face was sprouting with a heavy growth of beard, gave him a peculiarly villainous appearance:

He was seated on a chair, his head sunk on his breast. His eyes were hollow, and his face overspread with a horrible sickly greenish pallor, the hue of the last stage of fear. His hands, resting on his knees, twisted and fiddled continually. Every now and then convulsive shudders shook him. The man was quite obviously on the verge of a collapse.

As the Chief and Desmond advanced into the room, the Jew looked up in panic. Then he sprang to his feet with a scream and flung himself on his knees, crying:

“Ah, no! Don’t take me away! I ain’t done no ’arm, gentlemen! S’welp me, gentlemen, I ain’t a murderer! I swear...”

“Get him up!” said the Chief in disgust, “and, look here, can’t you give him a drink? I want to speak to him. He’s not fit to talk rationally in this state!”

The detective pushed a bell in the wall, a policeman answered it, and presently the prisoner was handed a stiff glass of whiskey and water.

After Barney had swallowed it, the Chief said:

“Now, look here, my man, I want you to tell me exactly what happened last night. No fairy tales, remember! I know what you told the police, and if I catch you spinning me any yarns on to it, well, it’ll only be the worse for you. I don’t mind telling you, you’re in a pretty bad mess!”

The prisoner put down the glass wearily and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Though the room was bitterly cold, the perspiration stood out in beads on his brow.

“I have told the trewth, sir,” he said hoarsely, “and it goes against me, don’t it? Hafen’t I not gif myself op to the policeman? Couldn’t I not haf drop the svag and ron away? For sure! And vy didn’t I not do it? For vy, because of vot I seen in that house. I’ve ’ad my bit of trobble mit the police and vy should I tell them how I vos op to a game last night if I vas not a-telling the trewth, eh! I’ve been on the crook, gentlemen, I say it, ja, but I ain’t no murderer, God choke me I ain’t!

“I’ve earned gut monney in my time on the ’alls but life is very ’ardt, and I’ve been alvays hongry these days. Yesterday I meet old Mac wot I used to meet about the ’alls I vos workin’ along o’ my boss... at the agent’s it vos were I vos lookin’ for a shop! The perfesh always makes a splash about its salaries, gentlemen, and Mac ’e vos telling me vot a lot o’ monney he make on the Samuel Circuit and ’ow ’e ’ad it at home all ready to put into var savings certif’kits. I never done a job like this von before, gentlemen, but I vos hardt pushed for money, s’welp me I vos!

“I left it till late last night because of these air raids... I vanted to be sure that ole Mac and ’is daughter should be asleep. I god in from the back of the louse, oi, oi, bot it vos dead easy! through the scollery vindow. I cleared op a bagful of stuff in the dining-room... there vosn’t, anything vorth snatching outer the parlor... and sixty-five quid out of an old cigar-box in the desk. The police ’as got it... I give it all back! I say I haf stolen, but murder? No!” He paused.

“Go on,” said the Chief.

The prisoner looked about him in a frightened way.

“I vos jus’ thinking I had better be getting avay, he continued in his hoarse, gutteral voice, ’ven snick.!... I hears a key in the front door. I vos, standing by the staircase... I had no time to get out by the vay I had kom so I vent opstairs to the landing vere there vos a curtain. I shlip behind the curtain and vait! I dare not look out but I listen, I listen.. I hear some one go into the dining-room and move about. I open the curtain a little way... so!... because I think I vill shlip downstairs vile the other party is in the dining-room... and there I sees ole Mac in his dressing-gown just coming down from the first floor. The same moment I hear a step in the front hall.

“I see ole Mac start but he does not stop. He kom right downstairs, and I step back behind the curtain ontil I find a door vich I push. I dare not svitch on my light but presently I feel the cold edge of a bath with my hands. I stay there and vait. Oi, oi, oi, how shall you belief vot I tell?”

He broke off trembling.

“Go on, Barney,” said the detective, “can’t you see the gentlemen are waiting?”

The Jew resumed, his voice sinking almost to a whisper.

“It vos quite dark behind the curtain but from the bathroom, through the open door, I could just see ole Mac standing with his back to me, a-holding the curtain. He must haf shlip in there to watch the other who vos komming opstairs. Then... then... I hear a step on the stair... a little, soft step... then ole Mac he open the curtain and cry ‘Who are you?’ Bang! the... the... other on the stairs he fire a shot. I see the red flash and I smell the... the powder not? The other, he does not vait... he just go on opstairs and ole Mac is lying there on his back with the blood a-trickling out on the oil-cloth. And I, vith my bag on my back, I creep downstair and out by the back again, and I ron and ron and then I valks. Gott! how I haf walked! I vos so frightened! And then, at last, I go to a policeman and gif ‘myself op!”

Barney stopped. The tears burst from his eyes and laying his grimy face on his arm, he sobbed.

The detective patted him on the back.

“Pull yourself together, man!” he said encouragingly.

“This man on the stairs,” queried the Chief, “did you see him?”

“Ach was!” replied the prisoner, turning a tearstained face towards him, “I haf seen nothing, except old Mac’s back vich vos right in vront of me, it vos so dark!”

“But couldn’t you see the other person at all, not even the outline” persisted the Chief.

The prisoner made a gesture of despair.

“It vos so dark, I say! Nothing haf I seen! I haf heard only his step!”

“What sort of step? Was it heavy or light or what? Did this person seem in a hurry?”

“A little light tread... so! won, two! won, two!, and qvick like ’e think ’e sneak opstairs vithout nobody seeing!”

“Did he make much noise”

“Ach was! hardly at all... the tread, ’e vos so light like a woman’s...”

“Like a woman’s, eh!”, repeated the Chief, as if talking to himself, “Why do you think that?”

“Because for vy it vos so gentle! The’ staircase, she haf not sqveak as she haf sqveak when I haf creep away!”

The Chief turned to the plain clothes man.

“You can take him away now, officer,” he said.

Barney sprang up trembling.

“Not back to the cell,” he cried imploringly, “I cannot be alone. Oh, gentlemen, you vill speak for me! I haf not had trobble vith the police this long time! My vife’s cousin, he is an elder of the Shool he vill tell you ’ow poor ve haf been...”

But the Chief crossed the room to the door and the detective hustled the prisoner away.

Then the official whom they had seen before came in.

“Glad I caught you,” he said. “I thought you would care to see the post mortem report. The doctor has just handed it in.”

The chief waved him off.

“I don’t think there’s any doubt about the cause of death,” he replied, “we saw the body ourselves...”

“Quite so,” replied the other, “but there is something interesting about this report all the same. They were able to extract the bullet!”

“Oh,” said the Chief, “that ought to tell us something!”

“It does,” answered the official. “We’ve submitted it to our small arms expert, and he pronounces it to be a bullet fired by an automatic pistol of unusually large calibre.”

The Chief looked at Desmond.

“You were right there,” he said.

“And,” the official went on, “our man says, further, that, as far as he knows, there is only one type of automatic pistol that fires a bullet as big as this one!”

“And that is?” asked the Chief.

“An improved pattern of the German Mauser pistol,” was the other’s startling reply.

The Chief tapped a cigarette meditatively on the back of his hand.

“Okewood,” he said, “you are the very model of discretion. I have put your reticence to a pretty severe test this morning, and you have stood it very well. But I can see that you are bristling with questions like a porcupine with quills. Zero hour has arrived. You may fire away!”

They were sitting in the smoking-room of the United Service Club. “The Senior,” as men call it, is the very parliament of Britain’s professional navy and army. Even in these days when war has flung wide the portals of the two services to all-comers, it retains a touch of rigidity. Famous generals and admirals look down from the lofty walls in silent testimony of wars that have been. Of the war that is, you will hear in every cluster of men round the little tables. Every day in the hour after luncheon battles are fought over again, personalities criticized, and decisions weighed with all the vigorous freedom of ward-room or the mess ante-room.

And so to-day, as he sat in his padded leather chair, surveying the Chief’s quizzing face across the little table where their coffee was steaming, Desmond felt the oddness of the contrast between the direct, matter-of-fact personalities all around them, and the extraordinary web of intrigue which seemed to have spun itself round the little house at Seven Kings.

Before he answered the Chief’s question, he studied him for a moment under cover of lighting a cigarette. How very little, to be sure, escaped that swift and silent mind! At luncheon the Chief had scrupulously avoided making, the slightest allusion to the thoughts with which Desmond’s mind was seething. Instead he had told, with the gusto of the born raconteur, a string of extremely droll yarns about “double crosses,” that is, obliging gentlemen who will spy for both sides simultaneously, he had come into contact with during his long and varied career. Desmond had played up to him and repressed the questions which kept rising to his lips. Hence the Chief’s unexpected tribute to him in the smoking room.

“Well,” said Desmond slowly, “there are one or two things I should like to know. What am I here for? Why did you have me followed last night? How did you know, before we ever went to Seven Kings, that Barney did not murder old Mackwayte? And lastly...”

He paused, fearing to be rash; then he risked it:

“And lastly, Nur-el-Din?”

The Chief leant back in his chair and laughed.

“I’m sure you feel much better now,” he said. Then his face grew grave and he added:

“Your last question answers all the others!”

“Meaning Nur-el-Din?” asked Desmond.

The Chief nodded.

“Nur-el-Din,” he repeated. “That’s why you’re here, that’s why I had you followed last night, that’s why I...” he hesitated for the word, “let’s say, presumed (one knows for certain so little in our work) that our friend Barney had nothing to do with the violent death of poor old Mackwayte. Nur-el-Din in the center, the kernel, the hub of everything!”

The Chief leant across the table and Desmond pulled his chair closer.

“There’s only one other man in the world can handle this job, except you,” he began, “and that’s your brother Francis. Do you know where he is, Okewood?”

“He wrote to me last from Athens,” answered Desmond, “but that must be nearly two months ago.”

The Chief laughed.

“His present address is not Athens,” he said, “if you want to know, he’s serving on a German Staff somewhere at the back of Jerusalem the Golden. Frankly, I know you don’t care about our work, and I did my best to get your brother. He has had his instructions and as soon as he can get away he will. That was not soon enough for me. It had to be him or you. So I sent for you.”

He stopped and cleared his throat. Desmond stared at him. He could hardly believe his eyes. This quiet, deliberate man was actually embarrassed.

“Okewood,” the Chief went on, “you know I like plain speaking, and therefore you won’t make the mistake of thinking I’m trying to flatter you.”

Desmond made a gesture.

“Wait a moment and hear me out,” the Chief went on. “What is required for this job is a man of great courage and steady nerve. Yes, we have plenty of fellows like that. But the man I am looking for must, in addition to possessing those qualities, know German and the Germans thoroughly, and when I say thoroughly I mean to the very core so that, if needs be, he may be a German, think German, act German. I have men in my service who know German perfectly and can get themselves up to look the part to the life. But they have never been put to the real, the searching test. Not one of them has done what you and your brother successfully accomplished. The first time I came across you, you had just come out of Germany after fetching your brother away. To have lived for weeks in Germany in wartime and to have got clear away is a feat which shows that both you and he can be trusted to make a success of one of the most difficult and critical missions I have ever had to propose. Francis is not here. That’s why I want you.”

The Chief paused as if weighing something in his mind.

“It’s not the custom of either service, Okewood,” he said, “to send a man to certain death. You’re not in this creepy, crawly business of ours. You’re a pukka soldier and keen on your job. So I want you to know that you are free to turn down this offer of mine here and now, and go back to France without my thinking a bit the worse of you.”

“Would you tell me something about it?” asked Desmond.

“I’m sorry I can’t,” replied the other. “There must be only two men in this secret, myself and the fellow who undertakes the mission. Of course, it’s not certain death. If you take this thing on, you’ll have a sporting chance for your life, but that’s all. It’s going to be a desperate game played against a desperate opponent. Now do you understand why I didn’t want you to think I was flattering you? You’ve got your head screwed on right, I know, but I should hate to feel afterwards, if anything went wrong, that you thought I had buttered you up in order to entice you into taking the job on!”

Desmond took two or three deep puffs of his cigarette and dropped it into the ash-tray.

“I’ll see you!” he said.

The Chief grinned with delight.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed, “I knew you were my man!”

CHAPTER VII.
NUR-EL-DIN

The love of romance is merely the nobler form of curiosity. And there was something in Desmond Okewood’s Anglo-Irish parentage that made him fiercely inquisitive after adventure. In him two men were constantly warring, the Irishman, eager for romance yet too indolent to go out in search of it, and the Englishman, cautious yet intensely vital withal, courting danger for danger’s sake.

All his ill-humor of the morning at being snatched away from his work in France had evaporated. In the Chief he now saw only the magician who was about to unlock to him the realms of Adventure. Desmond’s eyes shone with excitement as the other, obviously simmering with satisfaction, lit another cigarette and began to speak.

“The British public, Okewood,” he said, hitching his chair closer, “would like to see espionage in this country rendered impossible. Such an ideal state of things is, unfortunately out of the question. Quite on the contrary, this country of ours is honeycombed with spies. So it will ever be, as long as we have to work with natural means: at present we have no caps of invisibility or magician’s carpets available.

“As we cannot hope to kill the danger, we do our best to scotch it. Personally, my modest ambition is to make espionage as difficult as possible for the enemy by knowing as many as possible of his agents and their channels of communication, and by keeping him happy with small results, to prevent him from finding out the really important things, the disclosure of which would inevitably compromise our national safety.”

He paused and Desmond nodded.

“The extent of our business,” the Chief resumed, “is so large, the issues at stake so vital, that we at the top have to ignore the non-essentials and stick to the essentials. By the nonessentials I mean the little potty spies, actuated by sheer hunger or mere officiousness, the neutral busybody who makes a tip-and-run dash into England, the starving waiter, miserably underpaid by some thieving rogue in a neutral country—or the frank swindler who sends back to the Fatherland and is duly paid for long reports about British naval movements which he has concocted without setting foot outside his Bloomsbury lodgings.

“These folk are dealt with somehow and every now and then one of ’em gets shot, just to show that we aren’t asleep, don’t you know? But spasmodic reports we can afford to ignore. What we are death on is anything like a regular news service from this country to Germany; and to keep up this steady flow of reliable information is the perpetual striving of the men who run the German Secret Service.

“These fellows, my dear Okewood, move in darkness. Very often we have to grope after ’em in darkness, too. They don’t get shot, or hardly ever; they are far too clever for that. Between us and them it is a never-ending series of move and countermove, check and counter-check. Very often we only know of their activities by enemy action based on their reports. Then there is another leak to be caulked, another rat-hole to be nailed up, and so the game goes on. Hitherto I think I may say we have managed to hold our own!”

The Chief stopped to light another cigarette. Then he resumed but in a lower voice.

“During the past month, Okewood,” he said, “a new organization has cropped up. The objective of every spy operating in this country is, as you may have surmised, naval matters, the movements of the Fleet, the military transports, and the food convoys. This new organization has proved itself more efficient than any of its predecessors. It specializes in the movement of troops to France, and in the journeys of the hospital ships across the Channel. Its information is very prompt and extremely accurate, as we know too well. There have been some very disquieting incidents in which, for once in a way, luck has been on our side, but as long as this gang can work in the dark there is the danger of a grave catastrophe. With its thousands of miles of sea to patrol, the Navy has to take a chance sometimes, you know! Well, on two occasions lately, when chances were taken, the Hun knew we were taking a chance, and what is more, when and where we were taking it!”

The Chief broke off, then looking Desmond squarely in the eyes, said:

“This is the organization that you’re going to beak up!”

Desmond raised his eyebrows.

“Who is at the head of it?” he asked quietly.

The Chief, smiled a little bitterly.

“By George!” he cried, slapping his thigh, “you’ve rung the bell in one. Okewood, I’m not a rich man, but I would gladly give a year’s pay to be able to answer that question. To be perfectly frank with you, I don’t know who is at the back of this crowd, but...” his mouth set in a grim line, “I’m going to know!”

He added whimsically:

“What’s more, you’re going to find out for me!”

Desmond smiled at the note of assurance in his voice.

“I suppose you’ve got something to go on?” he asked. “There’s Nur-el-Din, for instance. What about her?”

“That young person,” replied the Chief, “is to be your particular study. If she is not the center of the whole conspiracy, she is, at any rate, in the thick of it. It will be part of your job to ascertain the exact rôle she is playing.”

“But what is there against her?” queried Desmond.

“What is there against her? The bad company she keeps is against her. ‘Tell me who your friends are and I’ll tell you who you are’ is a maxim that we have to go on in our profession, Okewood. You have met the lady. Did you see any of her entourage? Her business manager, a fat Italian who calls himself Lazarro, did you notice him? Would you be surprised to hear that Lazarro alias Sacchetti alias Le Tardenois is a very notorious international spy who after working in the Italian Secret Service in the pay of the Germans was unmasked and kicked out of Italy... that was before the war? This pleasant gentleman subsequently did five years in the French penal settlements in New Caledonia for robbery with violence at Aix-les-Bains... oh, we know a whole lot about him! And this woman’s other friends! Do you know, for instance, where she often spends the week-end? At the country-place of one Bryan Mowbury, whose name used to be Bernhard Marburg, a very old hand indeed in the German Secret Service. She has identified herself right and left with the German espionage service in this country. One day she lunches with a woman spy, whose lover was caught and shot by the French. Then she goes out motoring with...”

“But why in Heaven’s name are all these people allowed to run loose?” broke in Desmond. “Do you mean to say you can’t arrest them?”

“Arrest ’em? Arrest ’em? Of course, we can arrest ’em. But what’s the use? They’re all small fry, and we have to keep out a few lines baited with minnows to catch the Tritons. None of ’em can do any harm: we watch ’em much too closely for that. Once you’ve located your spy, the battle’s won. It’s when he—or it may be a she—is running loose, that I get peeved!”

The Chief sprang impatiently to his feet and strode across the smoking-room, which was all but empty by this time, to get a match from a table. He resumed his seat with a grunt of exasperation.

“I can’t see light, Okewood!” he sighed, shaking his head.

“But is this all you’ve got against Nur-el-Din?” asked Desmond.

“No,” answered the other slowly, “it isn’t. If it were, I need not have called you in. We would have interned or deported her. No, we’ve traced back to her a line leading straight from the only member of the new organization we have been able to lay by the heels.”

“Then you’ve made an arrest?”

The Chief nodded.

“A fortnight ago... a respectable, retired English business man, by name of Basil Bellward... taken with the goods on him, as the saying is...”

“An Englishman, by Jove!”

“It’s hardly correct to call him an Englishman, though he’s posed as an English business man for so long that one is almost justified in doing so. As a matter of fact, the fellow is a German named Wolfgang Bruhl and it is my belief that he was planted in this country at least a dozen years ago solely for the purpose of furnishing him with good, respectable credentials for an emergency like this.”

“But surely if you found evidence of his connection with this gang of spies, it should be easy to get a clue to the rest of the crowd?”

“Not so easy as you think,” the Chief replied. “The man who organized this system of espionage is a master at his craft. He has been careful to seal both ends of every connection, that is to say, though we found evidence of Master Bellward-Bruhl being in possession of highly confidential information relating to the movements of troops, we discovered nothing to show whence he received it or how or where he was going to forward it. But we did find a direct thread leading straight back to Nur-el-Din.”

“Really,” said Desmond, “that rather complicates things for her, doesn’t it?”

“It was in the shape of a letter of introduction, in French, without date or address, warmly recommending the dancer to our friend, Bellward.”

“Who is this letter from?”

“It is simply signed ‘P.’, but you shall see it for yourself when you get the other documents in the case.”

“But surely, sir, such a letter might be presented in perfectly good faith...”

“It might, but not this one. This letter, as an expert has ascertained beyond all doubt, is written on German manufactured note-paper of a very superior quality;, the writing is stiff and angular and not French: and lastly, the French in which it is phrased, while correct, is unusually pompous and elaborate.”

“Then...”

“The letter was, in all probability, written by a German!”

There was a moment’s silence. Desmond was thinking despairingly of the seeming hopelessness of untangling this intricate webwork of tangled threads.

“And this murder, sir,” he began.

The Chief shrugged his shoulders.

“The motive, Okewood, I am searching for the motive. I can see none except the highly improbable one of Miss Mackwayte being my confidential secretary. In that case why murder the father, a harmless old man who didn’t even know that his daughter is in my service, why kill him, I ask you, and spare the girl? On the other hand, I believe the man Barney’s story, and can see that Marigold does, too. When I first heard the news of the murder over the telephone this morning, I had a kind of intuition that we should discover in it a thread leading back to this mesh of espionage. Is it merely a coincidence that a hair, resembling Nur-el-Din’s, is found adhering to the straps with which Barbara Mackwayte was bound? I can’t think so... and yet...”

“But do you believe then, that Nur-el-Din murdered-old Mackwayte? My dear Chief, the idea is preposterous...”

The Chief rose from his chair with a sigh.

“Nothing is preposterous in our work, Okewood,” he replied. “But it’s 3.25, and my French colleague hates to be kept waiting.”

“I thought you were seeing Strangwise, at two?” asked Desmond.

“I put him off until six o’clock,” replied the Chief, “he knows Nur-el-Din, and he may be able to give Marigold some pointers about this affair. You’re off to see Miss Mackwayte now, I suppose. You know where she’s staying? Good. Well, I’ll say good-bye, Okewood. I shan’t see you again...”

“You won’t see me again? How do you mean, sir?”

“Because you’re going back to France!”

“Going back to France? When?”

“By the leave-boat to-night!”

Desmond smiled resignedly.

“My dear Chief,” he said, “you must be more explicit. What am I going back to France for?”

“Why, now I come to think of it,” replied the Chief, “I never told you. You’re going back to France to be killed, of course!”

“To be killed!”

Desmond looked blankly at the other’s blandly smiling face.

“Two or three days from now,” said the Chief, “you will be killed in action in France. I thought of making it a shell. But we’ll have it a machine gun bullet if you like. Whichever you prefer; it’s all the same to me!”

He laughed at the dawn of enlightenment in Desmond’s eyes.

“I see,” said Desmond.

“I hope you don’t mind,” the Chief went on more seriously, “but I know you have no people to consider except your brother and his wife. She’s in America, and Francis can’t possibly hear about it. So you needn’t worry on that score. Or do you?”

Desmond laughed.

“No-o-o!” he said slowly, “but I’m rather young to die. Is it absolutely necessary for me to disappear?”

“Absolutely!” responded the Chief firmly.

“But how will we manage it?” asked Desmond.

“Catch the leave-boat to-night and don’t worry. You will receive your instructions in due course.”

“But when shall I see you again?”

The Chief chuckled.

“Depends entirely on yourself, Okewood,” he retorted. “When you’re through with your job, I expect. In the meantime, Miss Mackwayte will act between us. On that point also you will be fully instructed. And now I must fly!”

“But I say, sir,” Desmond interposed hastily. “You haven’t told me what I am to do. What part am I to play in this business anyway?”

“To-morrow,” said the Chief, buttoning up his coat, “you become Mr. Basil Bellward!”

CHAPTER VIII.
THE WHITE PAPER PACKAGE

A taxi was waiting in Pall Mall outside the club and Desmond hailed it, though secretly wondering what the driver would think of taking him out to Seven Kings. Rather to his surprise, the man was quite affable, took the address of the house where Barbara was staying with her friends and bade Desmond “hop in.” Presently, for the second time that day, he was heading for the Mile End Road.

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 he 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 crêpe 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 succès 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 café 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 déjeuner 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 tête-à-tête 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 déjeuner? 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 risqué, but narrated with the greatest bonhomie.

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 rôle 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, n’est-ce pas?”