nd, which Malcolm Sage took, an odd, quizzical
expression in his eyes. "This Detective Bureau notion is a whale."

"The zoological allusion, I'm afraid, is beyond me," said Malcolm
Sage as he struck a match, "but no doubt you are right," and he
looked across at Sir James Walton, whose eyes smiled his approval.

"It's all fixed up," cried Sir John Dene to his wife as she came out
into the hall as the visitors were departing.

"I'm so glad," she cried, giving her hand to Malcolm Sage. "You'll
be such a success, Mr. Sage," and she smiled confidently up into his
eyes.

"With such friends," he replied, "failure would be an impertinence,"
and he and Sir James Walton passed out of the flat to return to what
was left of the rapidly demobilising Department Z, which had made
history by its Secret Service work.

In a few days the news leaked out that "M.S.," as Malcolm Sage was
called by the staff, was to start, a private-detective agency. The
whole staff promptly offered its services, and there was much
speculation and heart-burning as to who would be selected.

On hearing that she was to continue to act as Malcolm Sage's
secretary, Miss Gladys Norman had done a barn-dance across the room,
her arrival at the door synchronising with the appearance of Malcolm
Sage from without. It had become a tradition at Department Z that
"M.S." could always be depended upon to arrive at the most
embarrassing moment of any little dramatic episode; but it was
equally well-known that he possessed a "blind-side" to his vision.
They called it "the Nelson touch."

James Thompson, Malcolm Sage's principal assistant, and William
Johnson, the office junior, had also been engaged, and their
enthusiasm has been as great as that of their colleague, although
less dramatically expressed.

A battle royal was fought over the body of Arthur Tims, Malcolm
Sage's chauffeur. Sir John Dene had insisted that a car and a
chauffeur were indispensable to a man who was to rival Pinkerton's.
Malcolm Sage, on the other hand, had protested that it was an
unnecessary expense in the early days of a concern that had yet to
justify itself. To this Sir John Dene had replied, "Shucks!" at the
same time notifying Tims that he was engaged for a year, and
authorising him to select a car, find a garage, and wait
instructions.

Tims did not do a barn-dance. He contented himself for the time
being with ruffling William Johnson's dark, knut-like hair, a thing
to which he wa