he had told, with the gusto of the born raconteur, a string of extremely droll yarns about “double crosses,” that is, obliging gentlemen who will spy for both sides simultaneously, he had come into contact with during his long and varied career. Desmond had played up to him and repressed the questions which kept rising to his lips. Hence the Chief’s unexpected tribute to him in the smoking room. 

 “Well,” said Desmond slowly, “there are one or two things I should like to know. What am I here for? Why did you have me followed last night? How did you know, before we ever went to Seven Kings, that Barney did not murder old Mackwayte? And lastly...” 

 He paused, fearing to be rash; then he risked it: 

 “And lastly, Nur-el-Din?” 

 The Chief leant back in his chair and laughed. 

 “I’m sure you feel much better now,” he said. Then his face grew grave and he added: 

 “Your last question answers all the others!” 

 “Meaning Nur-el-Din?” asked Desmond. 

 The Chief nodded. 

 “Nur-el-Din,” he repeated. “That’s why you’re here, that’s why I had you followed last night, that’s why I...” he hesitated for the word, “let’s say, presumed (one knows for certain so little in our work) that our friend Barney had nothing to do with the violent death of poor old Mackwayte. Nur-el-Din in the center, the kernel, the hub of everything!” 

 The Chief leant across the table and Desmond pulled his chair closer. 

 “There’s only one other man in the world can handle this job, except you,” he began, “and that’s your brother Francis. Do you know where he is, Okewood?” 

 “He wrote to me last from Athens,” answered Desmond, “but that must be nearly two months ago.” 

 The Chief laughed. 

 “His present address is not Athens,” he said, “if you want to know, he’s serving on a German Staff somewhere at the back of Jerusalem the Golden. Frankly, I know you don’t care about our work, and I did my 

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