Bill pointed to chairs and they sat down. “I’ve been trying to read, but it’s a nuisance turning the pages with these hands!”
“How are they coming along?”
“Nicely, thanks. Our local medico had a look at them when we got back from Heartfield’s this morning. He says that the salve you used must be wonderful stuff—he’d never seen anything heal so quickly.”
Mr. Davis smiled, and pulling out his briar pipe, filled and lighted it. “By tomorrow you’ll be able to discard the bandages,” he observed. “Although you will have to go easy on the hands themselves for a couple of days. I came across that salve in the Near East some years ago. Some day, when I can snaffle a few weeks off the job, I’ll put the ointment on the market, and let it make my everlasting fortune.” Bill looked surprised.
“But I thought—”
“That old Davis was taking a cheap vacation, rent free! That is the story I pass out just now, Mr. Secret Service Operative Bolton! But—and I’m rather sorry to confess it—the story, though plausible, is untrue.”
“And what,” Bill spoke quietly, watching his visitor through half-shut lids, “gives you the impression that I am a secret service operative, Mr. Davis?”
“Perhaps you’d like to look at this.” Mr. Davis took a small leather case from his breast pocket and snapped back the flap, disclosing a green card. He held it so Bill could read it.
“Suffering cats! So you’re Ashton Sanborn—head of—”
“Quite so. But to you and everyone else while we are on this case of the winged cartwheels, just plain ‘Mr. Davis’, if you please.” He laughed quietly at the look of genuine amazement on Bill’s face. “You see, one is never sure who may be listening, and I am fairly certain that the gentry we are dealing with have not got onto Mr. Davis yet!”