“Got something up your sleeve, sir?” he inquired softly, for he knew somewhat of his superior officer's ways.
“Yes!” replied the other curtly. “A trump card!”
He continued to look at Jem Agar with a cold and calculating scrutiny, as a jockey may look at his horse or a butcher at living meat.
“It's like this,” he said. “You're dead. I want you to stay dead for a little while—say six months to a year!”
Agar seated himself on the corner of the table, which creaked under the weight of his spare muscular person, and then, true to his cloth, he awaited further orders; true to his nature, he waited in silence.
After a short pause the other proceeded to explain.
“You frontier men,” he said, “are closely watched; we know that. There will be great rejoicing over there, in Northern Europe, over this mishap to Stevenor, although, God knows, he was not a very dangerous man. Not so dangerous as you, Agar. They will be delighted to hear that you are out of the way. Stay out of the way for a year, and during that twelve months you will be able to do more than you could get done in twelve years when you were being watched by them.”
“I see,” answered Agar quietly. “Not dead, but gone—up country.”
“Precisely so; where they certainly will not be on the look-out for you.”
The bright black eyes were shining with suppressed excitement. The great man was afraid that his tool would refuse to work under this exacting touch.