“I’ll pick you up here at a quarter-past nine in the morning,” said Euan as he bade the girl good-night at her hotel, “then we’ll run down to the F.O. and collect my bags and go on to the station!”
“Euan,” the girl asked as she gave him her hand, “who is this man Schulz, do you think?”
The King’s messenger leant over and whispered:
“Secret Service!”
“Secret Service!”
The girl repeated the words in a hushed voice.
“Then Mr. Dulkinghorn ... is he ... that too?”
Euan nodded shortly.
“One of their leadin’ lights!” he answered.
“But, Euan,”—the girl was very serious now,—“what has the Secret Service to do with Hartley Parrish’s clients in Holland?”