“How do you mean?” Desmond asked innocently. 

 “Well,” said Strangwise slowly, contemplating the end of his cigarette, “it appears that the lady is involved in certain activities which considerably interest our Intelligence. But there, I mustn’t say any more!” 

 “But how on earth is Nur-el-what’s her name concerned in this murder, Maurice?” 

 Strangwise shrugged his shoulders. 

 “Ah, you’d better ask the police. But I tell you she’ll be getting into trouble if she’s not careful!” 

 Throughout this conversation Desmond seemed to hear in his ears Barbara’s words: “That woman’s afraid of your friend!” He divined that for some reason or other, Strangwise wanted to create a bad impression in his mind about the dancer. He scanned Maurice’s face narrowly. Its impenetrability was absolute. There was nothing to be gleaned from those careless, smiling features. 

 “Well,” said Desmond, getting up, “nous verrons. I shall have to make a bolt for it now if I don’t want to miss my train. Good-bye, Maurice, and I hope you’ll get some birds!” 

 “Thanks, old man. Au revoir, and take care of yourself. My salaams to the General!”. 

 They shook hands warmly, then Desmond grabbed his box of cigarettes in its neat white wrapper with the bold red seals and hurried off to his room. 

 Strangwise stood for a moment gazing after him. He was no longer the frank, smiling companion of a minute before. His mouth was set hard and his chin stuck out at a defiant angle. 

 He bent over the table and picked up a white paper package sealed with bold red seals. He poised it for a moment in his hands while a flicker of a smile stole into the narrow eyes and played for an instant round the thin lips. Then, with a quick movement, he thrust the little package into the side pocket of his tunic and buttoned the flap. 

 Whistling a little tune, he went on with his packing. 

 

CHAPTER IX. METAMORPHOSIS

 It was a clear, cold night. A knife-edge icy wind blew from the north-east and kept the lanyards dismally flapping on the flag-mast over the customs house. The leave train lay in the station within a biscuit’s throw of the quayside and the black, blank Channel 

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