“Barbara Mackwayte!” he whispered in a low voice, not seeming to realize that he was speaking aloud, “so that’s what she wanted with Nur-el-Din!”
Desmond was standing at Mortimer’s elbow and caught the whisper. As he heard Mortimer speak Barbara’s name, he had a sudden premonition that his own unmasking was imminent, though he understood as little of the purport of the other’s remark as of the pile of cigarettes lying on the carpet. As Mortimer turned to look at him, Desmond nerved himself to meet the latter’s gaze. But Mortimer’s face wore the look of a desperate man. There was no recognition in his eyes.
Not so with Desmond. Perhaps the bitterness of his disappointment had made Mortimer careless, perhaps the way in which he had pronounced Barbara’s name struck a familiar chord in Desmond’s memory. The unkempt hair brushed down across the forehead, the thick glasses, the heavy moustache still formed together an impenetrable mask which Desmond’s eyes failed to pierce. But now he recalled the voice. As Mortimer looked at him, the truth dawned on Desmond and he knew that the man standing beside him was Maurice Strangwise, his comrade-in-arms in France.
At that very moment a loud crash rang through the room, a cold blast of damp air came rushing in and the lamp on the table flared up wildly, flickered an instant and went out, leaving the room in darkness save for the glow of the fire.
A deep voice cried:
“May I ask what you are all doing in my house?”
The secret door of the bookshelves had swung back and there, framed in the gaping void, Desmond saw the dark figure of a man.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE UNINVITED GUEST
There are moments in life when the need for prompt action is so urgent that thought, decision and action must be as one operation of the brain. In the general consternation following on the dramatic appearance of this uninvited guest, Desmond had a brief respite in which to think over his position.
Should he make a dash for it or stay where he was and await developments?