"A joy ride," he repeated. "A cousin of mine is in command of a destroyer, and she was under orders to sail for New York. He hadn't the slightest right, really, to bring a passenger, as she was coming over on a special mission, but I had word about the trip over here, so I slipped on board late one night—not a word to any one, you understand—and—well, here I am. A more awful voyage," he went on impressively, "you couldn't imagine. I was sore all over within twenty-four hours of starting. There's practically no deck on those things, you know, for sitting out or anything of that sort. The British Navy's nowhere for comfort, I can tell you. The biggest liner for me, going back!"
Pamela was still a little dazed. Lutchester's story did not sound in the least convincing. For the moment, however, she accepted his account of himself.
"Tell me now," she begged, "about Captain Graham?"
"You haven't heard, then?"
"I have heard nothing. How should I hear?"
"I took him straight back to my rooms after we left you," Lutchester began. "He was in an awful state of nerves and drugs and drink. Then I put him to bed as soon as I could, and rang up a pal of mine at the War Office to take him in hand."
"Do you believe," she asked curiously, "that he had really been robbed of his formula?"
"Those amiable people who were interviewing him in the chapel seemed to think so," Lutchester observed.
"But you! What do you think?" she persisted. He smiled in superior fashion.
"I find it rather hard to bring myself to believe that any one would take the trouble," he confided. "I have heard it said in my department that there have been thirty-one new explosives invented since the beginning of the war. Two of them only are in use, and they're not much better than the old stuff."