“That’s because I have a cold,” said Desmond.
“Fiddlesticks!” retorted the lady, “the timbre is quite different! Bellward, I believe you’re in love! Don’t tell me you’ve been running after that hank of hair that Mortimer is so devoted to!” She glanced in Mortimer’s direction, but that gentleman was engaged in earnest conversation with Behrend and the tall man.
“Whom do you meant” asked Desmond.
“Where are your eyes, man?” rapped out Mrs. Malplaquet. “The dancer woman, of course, Nur-el-what-do-you-call-it. There’s the devil of a row brewing about the way our friend over there is neglecting us to run after the minx. They’re getting sharp in this country, Bellward—I’ve lived here for forty years so I know what I’m talking about—and we can’t afford to play any tricks. Mortimer will finish by bringing destruction on every one of us. And I shall tell him so tonight. And so will No. 13! And so will young Behrend! You ought to hear Behrend about it!”
Mrs. Malplaquet began to interest Desmond. She was obviously a woman of refinement, and he was surprised to find her in this odd company. By dint of careful questioning, he ascertained the fact that she lived in London, at a house on Campden Hill. She seemed to know a good many officers, particularly naval men.
“I’ve been keeping my eyes open as I promised, Bellward,” she said, “and I believe I’ve got hold of a likely subject for you—a submarine commander he is, and very psychic. When will you come and meet him at my house?”
Mortimer’s voice, rising above the buzz of conversation, checked his reply.
“If you will all sit down,” he said, “we’ll get down to business.”
Despite all distractions, Desmond had been watching for this summons. He had marked down for himself a chair close to the door. For this he now made, after escorting Mrs. Malplaquet to the settee where she sat down beside Behrend. Max took the armchair on the left of the fireplace; while No. 13 perched himself grotesquely on a high music-stool, his long legs curled round the foot. Mortimer stood in his former position on the hearth, his back to the fire.
A very odd-looking band! Desmond commented to himself but he thought he could detect in each of the spies a certain ruthless fanaticism which experience taught him to respect as highly dangerous. And they all had hard eyes!