lectrical engineering."

Desmond was silent. Disappointment had deprived him for the
moment of the power of speech. It was to be man to man then,
after all. If he was to secure Mortimer and the rest of the gang
that night, he must do it on his own. He could not hope for aid.
The prospect did not affright him. If Mortimer could have seen
the other's eyes at that moment he might have remarked a light
dancing in them that was not solely of Messrs. Pommery and
Greno's manufacture.

"If I had known you wanted to use the instrument, my dear
fellow," Mortimer continued in his bland voice, "I should
certainly have waited until you had done your business!"

"Pray don't mention it," replied Desmond, "you do well to be
prudent, Mr. Mortimer!"

Mortimer shot a sudden glance at him. Desmond met it with a
frank, easy smile.

"I'm a devil for prudence myself!" he observed brightly.

CHAPTER XVIII. THE GATHERING OF THE SPIES

Action, or the promise of action, always acted on Desmond Okewood
like a nerve tonic. His visit to the inn, followed by the fencing
with Mortimer at dinner, had galvanized his nerves jaded with the
inaction of the preceding days. He averted his eyes from the
future, he put the past resolutely away. He bent his whole
attention on the problem immediately before him--how to carry off
the role of Bellward in front of four strangers, one of whom, at
least, he thought, must know the man he was impersonating; how to
extract as much information as possible about the gang and its
organization before uncovering his hand; finally, how to
overpower the four men and the one woman when the moment had come
to strike.

Mortimer and he were in the library. By Desmond's direction old
Martha had put out two bridge tables and cards. A tantalus stand
with siphons and glasses, an assortment of different colored
liqueurs in handsome cut-glass carafes and some plates of
sandwiches stood on a side-table. At Mortimer's suggestion
Desmond had told the housekeeper that, once the guests had
arrived, she might go to bed.

The library was very still. There was no sound except for the
solemn ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece or the occasional
rustle of the evening paper in Mortimer's hand as he stood in
front of the fire. Desmond was sitting on the settee, tranquilly
smoking, studying Mortimer and thinking out the problem before
him.

He measured Mortimer with his eye. The latter was a bigger man
than Desmond in every