man, Thompson," he added.
"He'd extract facts from a futurist picture."

Colonel Walton nodded.

CHAPTER XVI

FINLAY'S S.O.S.

I

"Well, I think it's spies," announced Marjorie Rogers, as she sat
perched on the corner of John Dene's table, swinging a pretty foot.

Dorothy looked up quickly. "But----" she began, then paused.

"And it's all Mr. Llewellyn John's fault. He ought to intern all
aliens. On raid-nights the Tube is simply disgusting."

Dorothy smiled at the wise air of decision with which Marjorie settled
political problems. The strain of the past week with its hopes and
fears was beginning to tell upon her. There had been interminable
interrogations by men in plain clothes, who with large hands and blunt
pencils wrote copious notes in fat note-books. The atmosphere with
which they surrounded themselves was so vague, so non-committal, that
Dorothy began to feel that she was suspected of having stolen John Dene.

"Oh, mother!" she had cried on the evening of the first day of her
ordeal at the hands of Scotland Yard, "you should see your poor,
defenceless daughter surrounded by men who do nothing but ask questions
and look mysterious. They're so different from Mr. Sage," she had
added as an afterthought.

"If it isn't the spies," continued Marjorie, "then what is it?"

Dorothy shook her head wearily. She missed John Dene. It was just
beginning to dawn upon her how much she missed him. The days seemed
interminable. There was nothing to do but answer the door to the
repeated knocks, either of detectives or of journalists. It was a
relief when Marjorie ran in to pick her up for lunch--Dorothy had felt
it only fair to discontinue the elaborate lunches that were sent in--or
on her way home in the evening.

"A man doesn't get lost like a pawn-ticket," announced Marjorie.

"What do you know about pawn-tickets, Rojjie?"

"Oh, I often pop things when I'm hard up," she announced nonchalantly.

"You don't!" cried Dorothy incredulously.

"Of course. What should I do when I'm stoney if it wasn't for uncle."

"You outrageous little creature!" cried Dorothy. "I should like to
shake you."

"He's quite a nice youth, with black hair greased into what I think he
would call a 'quiff.'"

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"Uncle, of course. He always gives me more than anyone else," she
announced with the air of one conscious of a triumph.

"Where will you end, Rojjie?" cried Doro