Okewood of the Secret Service [45]
friend?"
Desmond felt strangely moved. Was this a callous murderess, a hired spy, who, with her great eyes brimming over with tears, entreated his protection so simply, so appealingly?
"I promise I will not give you up to him, Mademoiselle!" he said and hated himself in the same breath for the part he had to play. Then he left her still standing by the table, lost in thought.
Desmond walked through the hall to the room in which he had found Nur-el-Din asleep on his arrival. His nerves were strung up tight for the impending encounter with this Mortimer, whoever, whatever he was. Desmond did not hesitate on the threshold of the room. He quietly opened the door and walked in.
A man in a black and white check suit with white gaiters stood on the hearthrug, his hands tucked behind his back. He had a curiously young-old appearance, such as is found in professors and scientists of a certain type. This suggestion was probably heightened by the very strong spectacles he wore, which magnified his eyes until they looked like large colored marbles. He had a heavy curling moustache resembling that affected by the late Lord Randolph Churchill. There was a good deal of mud on his boots, showing that he had come on foot.
The two men measured one another in a brief but courteous glance. Desmond wondered what on earth this man's profession was. He was quite unable to place him.
"Mr. Bellward?" said Mortimer, in a pleasant cultivated voice, "I am pleased to have this opportunity of meeting you personally."
Desmond bowed and muttered something conventional. Mortimer had put out his hand but Desmond could not nerve himself to take it. Instead he pushed forward a chair.
"Thanks," said Mortimer sitting down heavily, "I've had quite a walk across the fen. It's pleasant out but damp! I suppose you didn't get my letter?"
"Which letter was that" asked Desmond.
"Why the one asking you to let me know when you would be back so that we might meet at last!"
Desmond shook his head.
"No," he said, "I didn't get that one. It must have gone astray. As a matter of fact," he added, "I only got back this morning."
"Oh, well then, I am fortunate in my visit," said Mortimer. "Did everything go off all right?"
"Oh, yes," Desmond hastened to say, not knowing what he was talking about, "everything went off all right."
"I don't in the least grudge you the holiday," the other observed, "one should always be careful to pay the last respects to the dead. It makes a good impression. That is so important in some countries!"
He beamed at Desmond through his spectacles.
"Was there anything left in your absence?" he asked, "no, there would be nothing; I suppose!"
Desmond took a firm resolution. He must know what the man was driving at.
"I don't know what you mean," he said bluntly.
"God bless my soul!" ejaculated Mortimer turning round to stare at him through his grotesque glasses. And then he said very deliberately in German:
"War niemand da?"
Desmond stood up promptly.
"What do you want with me?" he asked quietly, "and why do you speak German in my house?" Mortimer gazed at him blankly.
"Excellence, most excellent," he gasped. "I love prudence. My friend, where are your eyes?"
He put a large, firm hand up and touched the upper edge of the left lapel of his jacket. Desmond followed his gesture with his eyes and saw the other's first finger resting on the shiny glass head of a black pin. Almost instinctively Desmond imitated the gesture. His fingers came into contact with a glassheaded pin similarly embedded in the upper edge of the lapel of his own coat.
Then he understood. This must be the distinguishing badge of this confraternity of spies. It was a clever idea, for the black pin was practically invisible, unless one looked for it, and even if seen, would give rise to no suspicions. It had obviously escaped the notice of the Chief and his merry men, and Desmond made a mental resolve to rub this omission well into his superior on the first opportunity. He felt he owed the Chief one.
Mr. Mortimer
Desmond felt strangely moved. Was this a callous murderess, a hired spy, who, with her great eyes brimming over with tears, entreated his protection so simply, so appealingly?
"I promise I will not give you up to him, Mademoiselle!" he said and hated himself in the same breath for the part he had to play. Then he left her still standing by the table, lost in thought.
Desmond walked through the hall to the room in which he had found Nur-el-Din asleep on his arrival. His nerves were strung up tight for the impending encounter with this Mortimer, whoever, whatever he was. Desmond did not hesitate on the threshold of the room. He quietly opened the door and walked in.
A man in a black and white check suit with white gaiters stood on the hearthrug, his hands tucked behind his back. He had a curiously young-old appearance, such as is found in professors and scientists of a certain type. This suggestion was probably heightened by the very strong spectacles he wore, which magnified his eyes until they looked like large colored marbles. He had a heavy curling moustache resembling that affected by the late Lord Randolph Churchill. There was a good deal of mud on his boots, showing that he had come on foot.
The two men measured one another in a brief but courteous glance. Desmond wondered what on earth this man's profession was. He was quite unable to place him.
"Mr. Bellward?" said Mortimer, in a pleasant cultivated voice, "I am pleased to have this opportunity of meeting you personally."
Desmond bowed and muttered something conventional. Mortimer had put out his hand but Desmond could not nerve himself to take it. Instead he pushed forward a chair.
"Thanks," said Mortimer sitting down heavily, "I've had quite a walk across the fen. It's pleasant out but damp! I suppose you didn't get my letter?"
"Which letter was that" asked Desmond.
"Why the one asking you to let me know when you would be back so that we might meet at last!"
Desmond shook his head.
"No," he said, "I didn't get that one. It must have gone astray. As a matter of fact," he added, "I only got back this morning."
"Oh, well then, I am fortunate in my visit," said Mortimer. "Did everything go off all right?"
"Oh, yes," Desmond hastened to say, not knowing what he was talking about, "everything went off all right."
"I don't in the least grudge you the holiday," the other observed, "one should always be careful to pay the last respects to the dead. It makes a good impression. That is so important in some countries!"
He beamed at Desmond through his spectacles.
"Was there anything left in your absence?" he asked, "no, there would be nothing; I suppose!"
Desmond took a firm resolution. He must know what the man was driving at.
"I don't know what you mean," he said bluntly.
"God bless my soul!" ejaculated Mortimer turning round to stare at him through his grotesque glasses. And then he said very deliberately in German:
"War niemand da?"
Desmond stood up promptly.
"What do you want with me?" he asked quietly, "and why do you speak German in my house?" Mortimer gazed at him blankly.
"Excellence, most excellent," he gasped. "I love prudence. My friend, where are your eyes?"
He put a large, firm hand up and touched the upper edge of the left lapel of his jacket. Desmond followed his gesture with his eyes and saw the other's first finger resting on the shiny glass head of a black pin. Almost instinctively Desmond imitated the gesture. His fingers came into contact with a glassheaded pin similarly embedded in the upper edge of the lapel of his own coat.
Then he understood. This must be the distinguishing badge of this confraternity of spies. It was a clever idea, for the black pin was practically invisible, unless one looked for it, and even if seen, would give rise to no suspicions. It had obviously escaped the notice of the Chief and his merry men, and Desmond made a mental resolve to rub this omission well into his superior on the first opportunity. He felt he owed the Chief one.
Mr. Mortimer