“Certainly,” replied Desmond. “You will come alone. Otherwise, Madame will not see you. You understand? If you do not come alone, you will waste your time!”
“Where are you speaking from?” Desmond asked.
“If you will turn to the left on leaving your front gate,” the voice resumed, “and follow the road, a messenger will meet you and take you to the lady.”
“But...” Desmond began.
“Will you come at once? And alone?” the nasal voice broke in sharply.
Desmond took a moment’s thought. To go was to disobey orders; not to go was to risk losing a second chance of meeting Nur-el-Din. To telephone to 700 Stanning for assistance would bring a hornets’ nest about his ears; yet he might only see the dancer if he went alone. He lost no time in making up his mind. The Chief must allow him latitude for meeting emergencies of this kind. He would go.
“I will come at once,” said Desmond.
“Good,” said the voice and the communication ceased.
Somewhere aloft there sits a sweet little cherub whose especial job is to look after the headstrong. It was doubtless this emissary of providence that leant down from his celestial seat and whispered in Desmond’s ear that it would be delightful to walk out across the fen on this sunny afternoon. Desmond was in the act of debating whether he would not take the motor-bike, but the cherub’s winning way clinched it and he plumped for walking.
In the hall he met the housekeeper who told him she wanted to go into Stanning to do some shopping that afternoon. Desmond told her that he himself was going out and would not be back for tea. Then, picking a stout blackthorn out of the hallstand, he strode down the drive and out into the road.