fferent person from the private of Marines of some
thirty hours earlier, and had the honour of being invited to luncheon.
That lunch was the one scene in the comedy upon which he dwelt in
telling the story to me. "Lord Jacquetot," he said, "clinked glasses
with me and wished me the best of luck and success. It was as much as
he could do, he said, to keep the First Lord from coming down and
monkeying the whole affair. Luckily there was a debate in Parliament
that he wanted to figure in, and so couldn't get away. Lord Jacquetot
said that the First Lord had grabbed the whole scheme as his very own,
and forgotten that I had any part in it. I don't mind. The Secret
Service never gets any credit for anything. If it did, it wouldn't be
Secret very long."

"No credit," I remarked, "and not much cash I expect."

"Little enough, sir," replied Dawson. "I suppose we do the job for the
love of it. There's no sport like it. Our real work never gets into
the papers or the story-books."

"Never?" I asked slily. "What about that story of mine in the
_Cornhill Magazine_, which you still carry about next your heart?"

Dawson changed the subject. He never will appreciate chaff.

At midnight of the day of the luncheon party the _Intrepid_ and
_Terrific_, clean and fully loaded, cleared out of dock and slipped
off into the darkness attended by their destroyer escort, whose duty
it was to see them safe round Ushant. Eight hours later Dawson came
down to breakfast and found that Froissart, satisfied with his _petit
dejeuner_ of coffee and rolls, had already gone out. Dawson felt
satisfied with himself, and was confident now that his work in the
Three Towns had been well and truly done. The rest could be left to
the Navy, and to his Secret Service agents. He sat down to a hearty
meal, but was not destined to finish it. First came a messenger from
the Officer in charge of the Dockyard, who handed over a sealed note
and took a receipt for it. Dawson broke the seal. "Dear Mr. Dawson,"
he read, "You will be interested to learn that one of the hands
engaged upon the work we know of has asked for three days' leave--that
he may bury his mother in Essex. She died, he says, at Burnham. I
await your views before granting the leave asked for. The man has been
in our service for sixteen years, and bears the best of characters."

"Now what do I know of Burnham?" muttered Dawson. "The name seems
familiar." He rang the bell, asked for an atlas, and stud