Desmond and Francis Okewood sat in the dining-room of the Mill House finishing an excellent breakfast of ham and eggs and coffee which old Martha had prepared for them.
Francis was still wearing Mr. John Hill’s greasy jacket and moleskins, but the removal of the sandy whiskers and a remarkable wig, consisting of a bald pate with a fringe of reddish hair, had gone far to restore him to the semblance of his former self.
Desmond was feeling a good deal better. His head had escaped the full force of the smashing blow dealt at him by Strangwise with the butt of his pistol. He had instinctively put up his arm to defend his face and the thickly padded sleeve of Bellward’s jacket had broken the force of the blow. Desmond had avoided a fractured skull at the price of an appalling bruise on the right forearm and a nasty laceration of the scalp.
Francis had resolutely declined to enlighten him as to the events of the night until both had breakfasted. After despatching the corporal of military police to hurry the housekeeper on with the breakfast, Francis had taken his brother straight to the dining-room, refusing to let him ask the questions which thronged his brain until they had eaten and drunk. Only when all the ham and eggs had disappeared, did Francis, lighting one of Mr. Bellward’s cigars, consent to satisfy his brother’s curiosity.
“It was only yesterday morning,” he said, “that I landed at Folkstone from the Continent. How I got the Chief’s message recalling me and how I made my escape through the Turkish lines to Allenby’s headquarters is a long story which will keep. The Chief had a car waiting for me at Folkstone and I reached London in time to lunch with him. We had a long talk and he gave me carte blanche to jump into this business now, when and where I thought I could best help you.”
Desmond smiled bitterly.
“The Chief couldn’t trust me to make good on my own, I suppose,” he said.
“The Chief had a very good idea of the character of the people you had to deal with, Des.,” retorted Francis, “and he was a trifle apprehensive that the role you were playing might lead to complications, supposing the gang were to see through your impersonation. He’s a wonderful man, that, Des., and he was dead right—as he always is.”
“But how?” asked Desmond. “Did the crowd spot me?”
“No,” answered the other; “but it was your disguise which was responsible for the escape of Strangwise—”