philosopher. “Come to dinner tonight at eight,” I said. 

 “I thank you, Major. A little fish, please, plain-boiled, and some hot milk. You will forgive me if I borrow your couch after the meal and spend the evening on my back. That is the advice of my noo doctor.” 

 I got a taxi and drove to my club. On the way I opened the envelope Sir Walter had given me. It contained a number of jottings, the dossier of Mr Blenkiron. He had done wonders for the Allies in the States. He had nosed out the Dumba plot, and had been instrumental in getting the portfolio of Dr Albert. Von Papen’s spies had tried to murder him, after he had defeated an attempt to blow up one of the big gun factories. Sir Walter had written at the end: “The best man we ever had. Better than Scudder. He would go through hell with a box of bismuth tablets and a pack of Patience cards.” 

 I went into the little back smoking-room, borrowed an atlas from the library, poked up the fire, and sat down to think. Mr Blenkiron had given me the fillip I needed. My mind was beginning to work now, and was running wide over the whole business. Not that I hoped to find anything by my cogitations. It wasn’t thinking in an arm-chair that would solve the mystery. But I was getting a sort of grip on a plan of operations. And to my relief I had stopped thinking about the risks. Blenkiron had shamed me out of that. If a sedentary dyspeptic could show that kind of nerve, I wasn’t going to be behind him. 

 I went back to my flat about five o’clock. My man Paddock had gone to the wars long ago, so I had shifted to one of the new blocks in Park Lane where they provide food and service. I kept the place on to have a home to go to when I got leave. It’s a miserable business holidaying in an hotel. 

 Sandy was devouring tea-cakes with the serious resolution of a convalescent. 

 “Well, Dick, what’s the news? Is it a brass hat or the boot?” 

 “Neither,” I said. “But you and I are going to disappear from His Majesty’s forces. Seconded for special service.” 

 “O my sainted aunt!” said Sandy. “What is it? For Heaven’s sake put me out of pain. Have we to tout deputations of suspicious neutrals over munition works or take the shivering journalist in a motor-car where he can imagine he sees a Boche?” 

 “The news will keep. But I can tell you this much. It’s about as safe and easy as to go through the German lines with a 

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