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, was a much more alert looking individual, with a
shock of iron gray hair brushed back and a small pointed beard.

"Matthew's," said Desmond as he supped, "would it be indiscreet
to ask where we are?"

"In Kent, Major," replied Matthews.

"What station was that we started from?"

"Faversham."

"And where are we going, might I inquire?"

"To Cannon Street, sir!"

"And from there?"

Mr. Matthews coughed discreetly.

"I can't really say, sir, I'm sure! A car will meet you there and
I can go home to bed."

The ends sealed again! thought Desmond. What a man of caution,
the Chief!

"And this gentleman here, Matthews?" asked Desmond, lighting one
of the skipper's cigars.

"That, sir, is Mr. Crook, who does any little jobs we require in
the way of make-up. Our expert on resemblances, if I may put it
that way, sir, for we really do very little in the way of
disguise