Nur-el-Din started.
“Le Captaine is there, Madame,” said the French maid, “’e say Monsieur Mackwayte ask for Mademoiselle!”
The dancer thrust a little hand from the folds of her silken kimono.
“Au revoir, ma petite,” she said, “we shall meet again. You will come and see me, n’est-ce pas? And say nothing to anybody about...” she pointed to Barbara’s bag where the little package was reposing, “it shall be a secret between us, hein? Promise me this, mon enfant!”
“Of course, I promise, if you like!” said Barbara, wonderingly.
At half-past eight the next morning Desmond Okewood found himself in the ante-room of the Chief of the Secret Service in a cross and puzzled mood. The telephone at his bedside had roused him at 8 a.m. from the first sleep he had had in a real bed for two months. In a drowsy voice he had protested that he had an appointment at the War Office at 10 o’clock, but a curt voice had bidden him dress himself and come to the Chief forthwith. Here he was, accordingly, breakfastless, his chin smarting from a hasty shave. What the devil did the Chief want with him anyhow? He wasn’t in the Secret Service, though his brother, Francis, was.
A voice broke in upon his angry musing.
“Come in, Okewood!” it said.
The Chief stood at the door of his room, a broad-shouldered figure in a plain jacket suit. Desmond had met him before. He knew him for a man of many questions but of few confidences, yet his recollection of him was of a suave, imperturbable personality. To-day, however, the Chief seemed strangely preoccupied. There was a deep line between his bushy eyebrows as he bent them at Desmond, motioning him to a chair. When he spoke, his manner was very curt.