f men round the
little tables. Every day in the hour after luncheon battles are
fought over again, personalities criticized, and decisions
weighed with all the vigorous freedom of ward-room or the mess
ante-room.

And so to-day, as he sat in his padded leather chair, surveying
the Chief's quizzing face across the little table where their
coffee was steaming, Desmond felt the oddness of the contrast
between the direct, matter-of-fact personalities all around them,
and the extraordinary web of intrigue which seemed to have spun
itself round the little house at Seven Kings.

Before he answered the Chief's question, he studied him for a
moment under cover of lighting a cigarette. How very little, to
be sure, escaped that swift and silent mind! At luncheon the
Chief had scrupulously avoided making, the slightest allusion to
the thoughts with which Desmond's mind was seething. Instead he
had told, with the gusto of the born raconteur, a string of
extremely droll yarns about "double crosses," that is, obliging
gentlemen who will spy for both sides simultaneously, he had come
into contact with during his long and varied career. Desmond had
played up to him and repressed the questions which kept rising to
his lips. Hence the Chief's unexpected tribute to him in the
smoking room.

"Well," said Desmond slowly, "there are one or two things I
should like to know. What am I here for? Why did you have me
followed last night? How did you know, before we ever went to
Seven Kings, that Barney did not murder old Mackwayte? And
lastly..."

He paused, fearing to be rash; then he risked it:

"And lastly, Nur-el-Din?"

The Chief leant back in his chair and laughed.

"I'm sure you feel much better now," he said. Then his face grew
grave and he added:

"Your last question answers all the others!"

"Meaning Nur-el-Din?" asked Desmond.

The Chief nodded.

"Nur-el-Din," he repeated. "That's why you're here, that's why I
had you followed last night, that's why I..." he hesitated for
the word, "let's say, presumed (one knows for certain so little
in our work) that our friend Barney had nothing to do with the
violent death of poor old Mackwayte. Nur-el-Din in the center,
the kernel, the hub of everything!"

The Chief leant across the table and Desmond pulled his chair
closer.

"There's only one other man in the world can handle this job,
except you," he began, "and that's your brother Francis. Do you
know where he is, Okewood?"