*****
Late that evening, a very immaculately dressed young man of most superior appearance discovered the poet in an easy chair in his club, awaiting the midnight rush of journalists and actors. The young man presented a card.
"You will find my name there, sir," he said, "and also the Service on behalf of which I pay you this visit."
Cresswell scrutinised the card and sat up in his chair.
"Have a drink?" he suggested.
His visitor begged to be excused.
"The Chief asked me to find you at the earliest possible moment," he announced, "to first of all express his thanks and the thanks of his department for your valuable services."
"Had the Dutchman got the goods on him?" the poet asked eagerly.
"He had indeed! He was carrying documents of high importance which were obviously destined for our enemies," the young man said. "Their contents are to a certain extent a secret, and I am to ask you to add to your services by allowing the matter to slip from your memory."
"What's going to become of Mrs. Abrahams?" Cresswell enquired.