face beamed. His devotion to Gladys Norman was notorious.

The girl rose and raised to Malcolm Sage a pair of dark eyes from
which tears were not far distant.

"I'm so ashamed, Mr. Sage," she began, her lower lip trembling
ominously. "I've never done such a thing before."

"I've been working you too hard," he said, as he held back the door.
"You must go home and rest."

She shook her head and passed out, whilst Malcolm Sage returned to
his seat at the table.

"Working till two o'clock this morning," he remarked as he resumed
his seat. "She won't have assistance. Strange creatures, women," he
added musingly, "but beautifully loyal."

Sir James had dropped into a chair on the opposite side of Malcolm
Sage's table. Having selected a cigar from the box his late
chief-of-staff pushed across to him, he cut off the end and
proceeded to light it.

"Good cigars these," he remarked, as he critically examined the
lighted end.

"They're your own brand, Chief," was the reply.

Malcolm Sage always used the old name of "Chief" when addressing Sir
James Walton. It seemed to constitute a link with the old days when
they had worked together with a harmony that had bewildered those
heads of departments who had regarded Malcolm Sage as something
between a punishment and a misfortune.

"Busy?"

"Very."

For some seconds they were silent. It was like old times to be
seated one on each side of a table, and both seemed to realise the
fact.

"I've just motored up from Hurstchurch," began Sir James at length,
having assured himself that his cigar was drawing as a good cigar
should draw. "Been staying with an old friend of mine, Geoffrey
Challoner."

Malcolm Sage nodded.

"He was shot last night. That's why I'm here." He paused; but
Malcolm Sage made no comment. His whole attention was absorbed in an
ivory paper-knife, which he was endeavouring to balance upon the
handle of the silver inkstand. More than one client had been
disconcerted by Malcolm Sage's restless hands, which they
interpreted as a lack of interest in their affairs.

"At half-past seven this morning," continued Sir James, "Peters, the
butler, knocked at Challoner's door with his shaving-water. As there
was no reply he entered and found, not only that Challoner was not
there, but that the bed had not been slept in over night."

Malcolm lifted his hands from the paper-knife. It balanced.

"He thought Challoner had fallen asleep in the library," continued
S