tinue the
acquaintance. Then I met her here when I got away from Germany a
month ago; she was lonely, so I took her about a bit. Okewood,
I'm afraid I was rather indiscreet."

"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 beyond, a long line of cheerfully illuminated
windows that to those returning from leave seemed as the last
link with home.