ite the early hour, was
already wreathed in shadows. Wearily Desmond pulled a big
armchair up to the blaze and sat down. He told himself that he
must devote every minute of his spare time to going over in his
mind the particulars he had memorized of Mr. Bellward's habits
and acquaintanceships. He took the list of Bellward's friends
from his pocket-book.

But this afternoon he found it difficult to concentrate his
attention. His gaze kept wandering back to the fire, in whose
glowing depths he fancied he could see a perfect oval face with
pleading eyes and dazzling teeth looking appealingly at him.

Nur-el-Din! What an entrancing creature she was! What passion
lurked in those black eyes of hers, in her moods, swiftly
changing from gusts of fierce imperiousness to gentle airs of
feminine charm! What a frail little thing she was to have fought
her way alone up the ladder from the lowest rung to the very top!
She must have character and grit, Desmond decided, for he was a
young man who adored efficiency: to him efficiency spelled
success.

But a spy needs grit, he reflected, and Nur-el-Din had many
qualities which would enable her to win the confidence of men.
Hadn't she half-captivated him, the would-be spy-catcher,
already?

Desmond laughed ruefully to himself. Indeed, he mused, things
looked that way. What would the Chief say if he could see his
prize young man, his white-headed boy, sitting sentimentalizing
by the fire over a woman who was, by her own confession,
practically an accredited German agent? Desmond thrust his chin
out and shook himself together. He would put the feminine side of
Nur-el-Din out of his head. He must think of her henceforth only
as a member of the band that was spotting targets for those
sneaking, callous brutes of U-boat commanders.

He went back to the study of the list of Mr. Bellward's friends.
But he found it impossible to focus his mind upon it. Do what he
would, he could not rid himself of the sensation that he had
failed at the very outset of his mission. He was, indeed, he told
himself, the veriest tyro at the game. Here he had had under his
hand in turn Nur-el-Din and Mortimer (who, he made no doubt, was
the leader of the gang which was so sorely troubling the Chief),
and he had let both get away without eliciting from either even
as much as their address. By the use of a little tact, he had
counted on penetrating something of the mystery enveloping the
dancer and her relatio