cobblestones of a dockyard, glided through a slumbering town, and so gradually drew out into the open country where the car gathered speed and fairly raced along the white, winding road. Desmond had not the faintest idea of their whereabouts or ultimate destination. He was fairly embarked on the great adventure now, and he was philosophically content to let Fate have its way with him. He found himself wondering rather indolently what the future had in store. 

 The car slowed down and the chauffeur switched the headlights on. Their blinding glare revealed some white gate-posts at the entrance of a quiet country station. Desmond looked at his watch. It was half-past one. The car stopped at the entrance to the booking-office where a man in an overcoat and bowler was waiting. 

 “This way, Major, please,” said the man in the bowler, and led the way into the dark and silent station. At the platform a short train consisting of an engine, a Pullman car and a brakesman’s van stood, the engine under steam. By the glare from the furnace Desmond recognized his companion. It was Matthews, the Chief’s confidential clerk. 

 Matthews held open the door of the Pullman for Desmond and followed him into the carriage. A gruff voice in the night shouted: 

 “All right, Charley!” a light was waved to and fro, and the special pulled out of the echoing station into the darkness beyond. 

 In the corner of the Pullman a table was laid for supper. There was a cold chicken, a salad, and a bottle of claret. On another table was a large tin box and a mirror with a couple of electric lights before it. At this table was seated a small man with gray hair studying a large number of photographs. 

 “If you will have your supper, Major Okewood, sir,” said Matthews, “Mr. Crook here will get to work. We’ve not got too much time.” 

 The sea air had made Desmond ravenously hungry. He sat down promptly and proceeded to demolish the chicken and make havoc of the salad. Also he did full justice to the very excellent St. Estephe. 

 As he ate he studied Matthews, who was one of those undefinable Englishmen one meets in tubes and ’buses, who might be anything from a rate collector to a rat catcher. He had sandy hair plastered limply across his forehead, a small moustache, and a pair of watery blue eyes. Mr. Crook, who continued his study of his assortment of photographs without taking the slightest notice of Desmond, 

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