"I must say," John continued, "you put up quite a good fight, but I don't quite see the point. If you were acting on behalf of the Department, why did you attack me?"
He glanced at Dacent Smith, and the great man undertook an explanation. "The whole thing was a slight mistake. Your new acquaintance, known to us as Captain X., was under my orders, his avocation to-night. He saw Mrs. Beecher Monmouth shake hands with you. He also observed you—and he says, very neatly—put something in your inner breast pocket. He had never seen you before, but he naturally jumped to the conclusion that you were in league with this particular fashionable lady, whom he had been sent to watch, hence his mistaken attack on you."
John turned again to his late antagonist.
"I am sorry if I hurt you!" he said.
"You did hurt me abominably," retorted Captain X. "I am not much of a pugilist and that half-arm jolt, or whatever you call it, has my sincerest admiration."
"The luck was on my side," returned John politely.
"And the misdirected energy on mine," smiled the Captain.
Dacent Smith moved to the table, took up a sheet of paper, folded it, and handed it to Captain X.
"Now," said he, "we will return to business."
At nine o'clock the following evening John found himself in a lady's boudoir, a room heavy with the odour of Russian cigarettes. The neat, capped foreign maid who had ushered him into the apartment had removed herself, closing the door softly behind her.