mer stood gazing in stupefaction at the gaudy green and gold
lettering of the box. Then, running his thumb-nail swiftly along
the edge of the box, he broke the paper wrapping, the box burst
open and a shower of cigarettes fell to the ground.

"So that's your Star of Poland, is it?" cried Behrend in a
mocking voice.

"Wot 'ave yer done wiv' the sparklers, eh?" demanded Max,
catching Mortimer roughly by the arm.

But Mortimer stood, aimlessly shaking the empty box in front of
him, as though to convince himself that the gem was not there.
Behrend fell on his knees and raked the pile of cigarettes over
and over with his fingers.

"Nothing there!" he shouted angrily, springing to his feet. "It's
all bluff! He's bluffing to the end! See, he doesn't even attempt
to find his famous jewel! He knows it isn't there!"

But Mortimer paid no heed. He was staring straight in front of
him, a strangely woe-begone figure with his thatch of untidy hair
and round goggle eyes. Then the cigarette box fell to the floor
with a crash as Mortimer's hands dropped, with, a hopeless
gesture, to his sides.

"Barbara Mackwayte!" he whispered in a low voice, not seeming to
realize that he was speaking aloud, "so that's what she wanted
with Nur-el-Din!"

Desmond was standing at Mortimer's elbow and caught the whisper.
As he heard Mortimer speak Barbara's name, he had a sudden
premonition that his own unmasking was imminent, though he
understood as little of the purport of the other's remark as of
the pile of cigarettes lying on the carpet. As Mortimer turned to
look at him, Desmond nerved himself to meet the latter's gaze.
But Mortimer's face wore the look of a desperate man. There was
no recognition in his eyes.

Not so with Desmond. Perhaps the bitterness of his disappointment
had made Mortimer careless, perhaps the way in which he had
pronounced Barbara's name struck a familiar chord in Desmond's
memory. The unkempt hair brushed down across the forehead, the
thick glasses, the heavy moustache still formed together an
impenetrable mask which Desmond's eyes failed to pierce. But now
he recalled the voice. As Mortimer looked at him, the truth
dawned on Desmond and he knew that the man standing beside him
was Maurice Strangwise, his comrade-in-arms in France.

At that very moment a loud crash rang through the room, a cold
blast of damp air came rushing in and the lamp on the table
flared up wildly, flickered an instant and went out, leavin