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. 

 “What time did you part from the Mackwaytes at the theatre last night?” 

 Desmond was dumbfounded. How on earth did the Chief know about his visit to the Palaceum? Still, he was used to the omniscience of the British Intelligence, so he answered promptly: 

 “It was latish, sir; about midnight, I think!” 

 “They went home to Seven Kings alone!” 

 “Yes, sir, in a taxi!” Desmond replied. 

 The Chief contemplated his blotting-pad gloomily. Desmond knew it for a trick of his when worried. 

 “Did you have a good night?” he said to Desmond, suddenly. 

 “Yes,” he said, not in the least understanding the drift of the question. “... though I didn’t mean to get up quite so early!” 

 The Chief ignored this sally. 

 “Nothing out of the ordinary happened during the night, I suppose?” he asked again. 

 Desmond shook his head. 

 “Nothing that I know of, sir,” he said. 

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