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"NOW you'll understand, Carteret, that what I'm going to tell you is for your ears and your ears alone."

The two men were seated in a corner of the smoking-room with coffee and brandy on the table in front of them.

"Fire ahead, Colonel. I don't mind confessing that I'm deuced curious. And you have my promise that I shan't say a word to a soul."

"I'll make it as short as possible," began Gillson. "And you had better realize right away from the start that a great deal of what I am going to say is in the nature of conjecture or even guesswork. Certain bald facts stick out, and on those pegs we have had to build up our theory. How much of that theory is right, and how much wrong, only time will show. And reading between the lines of a letter Standish wrote me, I think the time is pretty close at hand.

"However, let's get on with it. About five years ago there was a series of extraordinary and apparently disconnected crimes. They were not confined to England: in fact some of the most remarkable of them took place abroad. To take only a few at random. The murder of Rodrigo, the Spanish millionaire banker, in his house in Madrid; the death of Steiner, the German coal magnate, in Essen; Vanderstum the Dutchman, who was shot late one night when going back from a dinner-party in Amsterdam; Leyland, one of our own millionaires who was brutally done to death in an hotel in Liverpool—there are four that spring to my mind. And as I say, at first sight there seemed no connection between them. But if you go a little deeper into it you will find one factor that is common to all. In each of the four cases I have mentioned the death of the victim was of inestimable value to certain other people. I won't bore you with the why and the wherefore, but the bald fact remains that no tears were shed by various vested interests when they died. Don't misunderstand me: I don't mean the same vested interest in each case—I mean four different ones."

"I get you perfectly, Colonel," said Tiny.

"About that time, too, strange rumours began to go round in the underworld. At first the police paid no attention to them: then it was found that the same stories were being circulated in Paris and Berlin and all over the continent. It was the rumour of a thing which has long been the subject of sensational fiction—namely the super-criminal. The Napoleon of crime had at last arrived—the man who sat at the centre of things and pulled the strings while others did the work.

"For a long time I refused to believe it, but at length the evidence became so overwhelming that I had no alternative but to agree. Somewhere or other there was a controlling influence at work, though whether it was one man or several we didn't know. Nor do we know to-day. But after having sifted all the information we could lay our hands on, and rejected every scrap which seemed in the smallest degree doubtful, we came to the definite conclusion that a new factor in crime had arisen and a damned dangerous factor too. In short, we were confronted with a central body of unscrupulous and clever men who were prepared—at a price—to do your crimes for you."

"Good Lord! Colonel—it sounds incredible."

"Nevertheless it is the truth," said the other gravely. "It is a lamentable fact, but when you come into the realms of high finance a good many standards seem to change. And though I do not say for a moment that the people who stood to be ruined by Leyland, for instance, would ever have gone to the length of murdering him themselves, they were by no means averse to somebody else doing it for them. Of course, to a certain extent all this is conjecture. Not one of the many men who, I believe, were collectively responsible for Leyland's death has ever said a word. Naturally not. Though it is possibly suggestive that one of them—a man well known and well respected—has since committed suicide for no apparent reason."

"But what I don't understand," interrupted Tiny, "is how the dickens they set about it. How did they get in touch with this central body?"

"I don't suppose they did for a moment: the central body got in touch with them. My dear Carteret, if our theory is correct we are dealing with people whose brains are quite the equivalent of our own. We are dealing with an organization which has ramifications and spies all over the place through whom it collects its information. And I believe what happened was this. Someone—some underling—cautiously approached one of the men who were up against Leyland. Probably no mention of the word murder was made. Probably all that was said was that for some large sum of money it could be guaranteed that Leyland would change his policy. Which shows, mark you, if my supposition is correct, that they are no ordinary type of criminal. Hard-headed business men don't part with their cash on vague promises, unless the man who makes them is pretty convincing. Anyway—still sticking to our theory—the fact remains that they did stump up, and Leyland was murdered."

"Have you any proof that they stumped up?" asked Tiny.

"No actual proof. But it is a significant fact that the bank account of the man who committed suicide shows that he drew out a sum of five thousand pounds about a week before Leyland was murdered—a proceeding so foreign to his usual habits that the cashier remarked on it."

"But surely something should be done about it."

"My dear fellow," said the other, with a short laugh, "one of the first things you find out in this game is the difference between knowing and proving. You won't believe it, but the police know of four men at large in London to-day—two of them members of first-class clubs—who have all committed murder. But they can't prove it, so nothing can be done. However, that is a digression: let's return to our friends. We dug and we delved: we tried channels known to us and channels unknown to us. We pieced together information received from every imaginable quarter and after a time things did begin to look a little clearer. But always did we come up against one impenetrable wall—the wall that we still haven't succeeded in climbing. Where is the big man? Who is the big man? At this minute we could lay our hands on half a dozen underlings, but where is the boss?"

"Interrupting you for a moment, Colonel," said Tiny, "did they use this poison on any of the cases you have mentioned?"

"No. That little joy is of comparative recent date. And you will be amazed when I tell you what we are now convinced was the first occasion it was used—at any rate in this country. Do you remember the sudden death of Prometheus just before the Cambridgeshire two years ago when the horse was at evens?"

"Do I not?" said Tiny grimly. "I stood to win a monkey over the double with Galloping Lad."

"Precisely. And there were a good many other people besides you who had backed Galloping Lad for the Cesarewitch. In fact if Prometheus had won, the bookies would have had the skinning of their lives."

"But, Colonel, you surely don't imply that there was foul play, do you? The horse was just found dead in his box one morning."

"Exactly. Doubled up in the most dreadful contortions—teeth bared, head a mass of bruises where the poor brute had hurled itself against the walls in his agony, and the stable-boy with a fractured skull in the corner of the box, due to the horse having kicked him in its frenzy."

"Of course," said Tiny, "the case is coming back to me. When the boy was fit to be examined he swore on his Bible oath that he hadn't heard a sound till the horse started bucking and rearing in the box. Then he had rushed in and been kicked. That was it, wasn't it?"

"That was it. And I've mentioned the case only because, though we didn't know it at the time, I am convinced now that that was the first time this poison was used. It was a new one on us then: no one thought of looking for any puncture, and anyway it would have been very hard to find in a horse's coat. The vet was completely nonplussed, but the horse was dead, and that was all there was to it. The boy was put through a searching cross-examination later, but he stuck to the same story. He said that he had been asleep as usual in front of the door of the box: that he was a very light sleeper, and that no one could possibly have got to the horse without waking him. And so after a while, though a lot of people maintained that the horse had been tampered with, the accepted verdict was that it had died of some inexplicable disease of the heart which had attacked it suddenly."

"Hold hard a minute, Colonel. Does this poison leave no trace?"

"No chemical trace. But it affects the muscles of the heart, tautening them up and in non-medical language bringing on acute cramp. Hence the agony which the victims suffer just before death."

"It sounds awfully jolly," murmured Tiny. "Do you mind if I have another spot of brandy? But the point I can't get at is this. If the boy was speaking the truth: if the door of the loose box was shut—how was the poison administered?"

"Don't ask me, Carteret: frankly I don't know. The window was open: the top half of the door consisted of bars as usual. If a poisoned dart was used on that occasion we should never have found it in the straw even if anyone had thought of looking for it. But—let's get on. It is really immaterial whether the poor brute was killed that way or not: there are other far more important things at stake. And perhaps the most important is the fact that from about that time we began to notice a subtle difference in the activities of the gang—a difference which brought Standish and me in more directly than before. Until then the matter had been essentially a police affair: now they began to interest themselves in political affairs. True only if big money was likely to be available: but it was a new departure, and one which made things even more serious."

He paused and lit a cigarette: then abruptly he turned to Tiny.

"Have you ever heard of Felton Blake?"

"Never—to the best of my knowledge," answered Tiny.

"Felton Blake is one of the most perfect examples of the criminal mind that exists to-day. From his appearance you would put him down as a successful lawyer or doctor. He is a clean-shaven, dark, distinctly good- looking man of about forty-five. He has a large house in Hampstead, where he entertains lavishly and well. He states, should the question arise, that he is a merchant broker, and he does, in fact, run an office somewhere down in the city. An absolute blind, of course: in reality the man is the most dangerous blackmailer in Europe. He is completely devoid of pity: the most usurious money-lender is a tender-hearted woman compared to him. Once his claws are into a human being, the poor wretch can say good-bye to hope. He is a member of this gang, and a very prominent one. And"—once again he paused—"he is the man with whom Lady Mary Ridgeway was having supper at the Fifty-Nine six weeks ago."

"Good God!" muttered Tiny. "Are you sure, sir?"

"Jebson—the man who was murdered last night—though not then waiting on the private room, made it his business to be hanging round when Blake left. He had seen him go in: had seen that he had a lady with him, but had not been able to see her face. He succeeded as she left: it was Lady Mary."

"But, Great Scott! Colonel—what the devil can it mean? Is he trying to blackmail her? If so, what for? I mean—she's a cheery soul: does damned fool things at times. But—blackmail Mary. I can't believe it."

"Is it any harder to believe than the mere fact that she was there?"

"Do you think she has written some letters or something like that? And he's got hold of them? Because if so I'll go and break every bone in the swine's body."

The older man smiled faintly.

"A very natural instinct, Carteret—but one which I fear you will have to repress. I gather you know Lady Mary pretty well, don't you?"

"I do," said Tiny and then hesitated. "Look here, Colonel," he burst out, "you've been pretty frank with me: I'll return the compliment. I didn't say anything in your office, but after all there is no good having half confidences. Of course—there may be nothing in it. I was dancing with her last night, and she was frightfully glum all through the evening. Not a bit her usual self—in fact I pulled her leg about it. And then at half-past eleven she suddenly coughed up something about a headache and pushed off. Moreover, she bit me good and proper when I suggested running her home."

"I am glad you told me, Carteret," said Gillson quietly. "As you say there may be nothing in it; at the same time it shows us that she might have been there."

"But, damn it—why should she be there?" exploded Tiny.

"That is what I would give a good deal to know," answered Gillson. "We can assume one thing at any rate: she did not go there because she wanted to—she went because she had to. Therefore Blake has some hold over her: or..."

"Or what?" demanded Tiny.

"She went there on behalf of somebody else."

"That's much more likely," remarked Tiny. "She's the most kind-hearted creature in the world: do anything for a pal."

The other glanced cautiously round the room: then he bent forward, and his voice was hardly above a whisper.

"You saw a good deal of Princess Olga when she was over here three years ago, didn't you?"

For a moment or two Tiny stared at him blankly.

"I did," he said at length. "But firstly, how do you know; and secondly, what has that got to do with it?"

"My dear fellow," said Gillson shortly, "don't be dense. Do you imagine that when a Princess who is shortly to become Queen of Bessonia comes over here on a visit we don't know who she goes about with? And as to what it has to do with it—possibly a lot. I think I'm right in saying that she and Lady Mary became very great friends."

"You are," agreed Tiny. "Very great friends indeed."

"Six weeks ago Lady Mary returned from a visit to Bessonia where she had stayed with the King and Queen. A few days later she has supper with a notorious blackmailer in a private room at the Fifty-Nine—admittedly a thing which only the greatest provocation would cause her to do. Now do you see what I'm getting at?"

"I gather that your implication is that she is acting on behalf of the Queen. But I don't see that it takes us much further."

"It doesn't—and that is where you come in. Had Jebson not been murdered, it might have been a different matter. As it is, you've got to do what you can. But first of all get the points clear in your mind. As I told you the activities of the gang have of recent months tended to become political. Add to that the fact that at the present moment Bessonia is the open powder-keg of Europe. The overthrow of the King and Queen would undoubtedly cause a grave crisis: but there are people who would pay a lot of money to bring it about. There is the major side of the case: now for the minor. Has Felton Blake got some hold over the King and Queen—or over the Queen alone—which if used in the proper quarter might bring about that overthrow? And is Lady Mary acting as an emissary of the Queen to buy off Blake, or to persuade him to hold his hand? That's what I want to find out: that's what I believe Jebson did find out last night. And was murdered for his pains."

He paused and lit a cigarette, while Tiny sat motionless, staring at him.

"Understand, Carteret, that only two other men in the world—on our side at any rate—know what I've been telling you. One is Ronald Standish. Dexter knows nothing save the obvious fact that Lady Mary had supper with Felton Blake. His is purely the police side of the show: this is our end of it."

"But surely, Colonel," said Tiny at length, "in a case of such gravity as this something could be done with this man Blake. Couldn't he be run in—on a faked charge if necessary?"

The other shook his head.

"You can't run a man in on a faked charge in this country, Carteret. At least not in peace-time. And as to a genuine charge against the swine—he's far too clever. Blake only deals in those cases where the consequences to the victim if he did come forward and lay information would be such that he simply daren't do it. There are probably forty people to-day, any one of whom could get that blackguard sent to prison for fifteen years. But not one of them will do it. Some day, of course, a social benefactor will come along who will murder Blake. And then he will be tried for his life and probably hanged. But until that moment arrives we have got to fight Blake with legitimate weapons."

"Exactly what do you want me to do?" asked Tiny.

"I would suggest that you call round and see Lady Mary this afternoon—ostensibly to say good-bye to her. Or to inquire if her headache is better. Then I leave it entirely to you. Find out what you can. Even the certainty that she was at the Fifty-Nine last night would be something."

"Can't say I like it much, Colonel."

"You are free to back out now, Carteret. You are not under my orders. But I think you are viewing the thing from the wrong aspect. Don't get into your head the idea that I am asking you to spy on her. We are entirely on her side—and the more we know the more we can help her. If only people who are up against the Blakes of this world would realize that—Lord! what a difference it would make."

"Yes: I quite see that. All right—I'll have a dip at it. But don't expect too much, sir. Mary is not an easy person to pump. By the way—you don't happen to know the number of the private room, do you?"

The other rose.

"Wait here. I'll telephone and find out."

He threaded his way through the now half-empty room, leaving Tiny with his brain whirling. It was the extraordinary inside knowledge about other people's movements that Gillson had which amazed him. And yet he had seemed to take it quite as a matter of course. Then his mind switched over to the immediate problem. Deep down he felt instinctively that Mary had been to the Fifty-Nine the night before. She had been so utterly unlike her usual self that there must have been something pretty drastic to account for it. And suddenly he became quite definitely aware of the fact that the thought of Mary having supper with Felton Blake affected him considerably more than if it had been Vera Lethington for example. The idea that there could be anything between them was simply laughable; and yet.... Why the Fifty-Nine? Why a private room? Surely if there was anything in this idea of Gillson's—if Mary was acting as a go-between for the Queen of Bessonia—she could have sent for Blake to come to her house.

His mind went back to the time three years ago when as Princess Olga he had seen a lot of her. Several little partis carrés with Mary and a cheery fellow about his own age. What the deuce was his name? He could remember him perfectly distinctly—a tall fair bloke with hair that crinkled naturally. Joe something or other. Funny now that he came to think of it, but he'd never seen him since. Seemed to have disappeared completely. Probably out in Kenya, or one of the colonies. What the devil was his name? Joe....

"Room number 7."

Tiny came out of his reverie to find Gillson standing beside him.

"Right, Colonel!" He got up. "It's a quarter past three now: I'll probably drift in to see her about half an hour before cocktail time. Best chance of finding her alone. And I'll let you know if I find out anything. Incidentally do the arrangements for to-morrow still hold?"

"They do," said the other. "And I know no more than you do what will happen afterwards. There is only one bit of advice I can give you—keep your eyes skinned. For unless I'm much mistaken the time is coming when you'll want 'em in the back of your head."

Tiny grinned cheerfully.

"Sounds good to me, sir. The only thing I'm not frantically set on is this poison stuff. Your description of the symptoms sounded most entertaining."

But there was no answering smile on the other's face.

"Take care, my boy," he said gravely. "There's no jest about this matter. And I'd like you to add to the fifteen next winter. Don't forget: sleep with one eye open. And ring me up to-night at eight o'clock and tell me what you've found out.... Sloane 1234 is the number."

Tiny strolled along Pall Mall still puzzling over the elusive name. At times it was on the tip of his tongue: then it was gone again. He would ask Mary when he saw her: she'd remember. Joe... Joe.... Though, after all, what the devil did it matter? There were vastly more important things to think about, not the least being the method of tackling Mary. From a fairly profound knowledge of her he realized that he would have to walk warily. If she got the impression that he was coming as a sort of emissary of the police the probability was that she would go straight off the deep end. And small blame to her: he would feel the same himself. And yet he saw quite clearly that what Gillson had said was right. Whatever was the reason of her meeting Felton Blake, it was better for her that it should be known. The point was—would she tell him?

He glanced at his watch: two hours still to put through. It was too early for tea: besides he felt as if he had only just finished lunch. And as he stood cogitating on what to do at the corner opposite the Athenaeum a magnificent Rolls-Royce swung past him and turned up towards Piccadilly Circus. Unconsciously he glanced at the people in it: then his eyes narrowed. For one of them was a clean-shaven, dark, distinctly good-looking man who might have been a successful lawyer: the other was Mary herself.

She had not seen him, but that fleeting glimpse had been enough for him to see the expression on her face. And it had been like a frozen mask: the man at her side might have been non-existent.

He felt instinctively that her companion was Felton Blake, though he had never seen the man before in his life. And he began to feel annoyed. Was Mary insane? In many ways it was more indiscreet of her to drive alone with the man than to have supper with him. Where one person might find out the latter, to drive alone with him in the middle of the season was proclaiming the thing to a hundred. Her features were far too well known: moreover, as far as he could see she was making no attempt whatever to conceal them.

He turned and strolled back the way he had come, and almost immediately ran into Gillson on his way to the Home Office.

"Has that man Felton Blake got a yellow Rolls limousine with an aluminium bonnet?" he demanded shortly.

"I should think it's more than likely," answered the other. "He's rich enough to keep a dozen. Why?"

"Because if he has he's just passed me at the corner there with Lady Mary alone in the car with him. Damn it! Colonel—the girl has gone mad. I must say she was looking at the swab as if he was something out of cheese. But fancy her doing such a thing! In May, in London, in the middle of the afternoon!"

"Don't forget one thing, Carteret, in your quite natural peevishness. Very few people except his actual victims know what Blake really is. You may not have met him, but he is a man who is received in very good society. So that it is not quite the howling indiscretion it seems to you. Where are you going?"

"White's—until it's time for me to go and see her."

"I'll find out about that question of the car and ring you up. So long."

But when twenty minutes later one of the pages told him he was wanted on the telephone he felt it was almost unnecessary to go. He knewthe man was Felton Blake: and Gillson's voice from the other end telling him that the description fitted Blake's car only confirmed a certainty.

He went moodily back into the smoking-room and flung himself into a chair. The club was empty, a fact for which he was profoundly thankful. He felt in no mood for conversation: he wanted to try and get things straight in his head. And after a time one fact began to stand out very clearly. If Jebson had been murdered by this mysterious poison because he had overheard something the night before, it was obvious that he himself would be in danger of a similar attention, if it became known that Mary had confided in him. Not that that mattered in the slightest. Tiny was as much without fear as a man may be, and so long as he could help Mary nothing else counted. But he also was no fool, and the prospect of dying in the manner Gillson had described failed to appeal to him in the slightest degree. At the same time if four skilled police officers had all been caught, the odds were pretty strongly against his escaping.

He wished now that he had asked Gillson more details about the other three. Surely by comparing the four cases some factor common to all must emerge, from which it would be possible to deduce something. And yet the only deduction that seemed to have been made so far was that the puncture in each case must have seemed accidental to the victim. He quite saw the reasoning behind the conclusion: at the same time there seemed to be some grave difficulties in accepting such a conclusion. If it had genuinely seemed accidental, then surely in each case it must have been pure chance whether it came on or not. If, for instance, some form of poisoned spike had been fixed somewhere in the room, it would be an absolute fluke if the victim pricked himself on it. And if it was fixed in something he was bound to use—his tooth-brush say—it certainly would not seem accidental. Besides, only the most eccentric people use tooth-brushes on their stomachs. And that was where Jebson had got it.

At last he gave it up and sent for some tea. He would probably solve the mystery personally, he reflected grimly, and until then there was not much good worrying. The utmost he could hope for was that if he was cast for the part of number five he would have the time to pass on some warning for the benefit of number six.

At a quarter past five he left the club and hailed a taxi. And while he waited for the machine, mindful of Gillson's instructions, he stared fixedly at the passers-by, most of whom seemed to resent it strongly. But with the exception of a Bishop, who Tiny regarded with certainty as the murderer in disguise, they seemed comparatively harmless.

He gave the driver the address, and sat down with care. Beyond the fact, however, that the machine was obviously on the verge of complete disintegration, he could see no cause for alarm. No spikes stuck out anywhere, and though the cushion felt as if it was stuffed with tin-tacks he arrived at his destination without any perforation of the skin. And then came the first check. Her ladyship was in, but the butler was not sure if she wished to see anyone at the moment. She had come in with a headache, and had left word that she did not wish to be disturbed.

"That's a nuisance, Simmonds," said Tiny. "Because I'm leaving England to-morrow."

"Leaving England, sir! I dare say that would make a difference. I'll ask her ladyship."

"What's that, Tiny?" A door at the end of the hall opened and the girl herself put her head out. "Leaving England! Come in and tell me about it. But no one else, Simmonds."

"Very good, my lady."

Tiny followed her into her own particular sanctum, and she closed the door.

"It's sweet of you to see me, Mary dear," he said, taking both her hands. "How's the head?"

"As an excuse it serves, Tiny. I felt I couldn't bear that chattering cocktail crowd this evening. Sit down and tell me about this sudden change of plan. What are you leaving England for? You said nothing about it last night."

"I only decided this morning," he answered, sinking into a chair and pulling out his cigarette-case. "And then you very nearly altered my plans."

"I did? What do you mean?"

"Whilst communing with nature opposite the Athenaeum this afternoon I narrowly escaped death from a large yellow Rolls. And in that Rolls, Mary dear, I perceived you complete with gentleman friend."

He spoke lightly, but the sudden tightening of her lips did not escape him.

"I never saw you, Tiny." Her voice expressed only the most perfunctory interest. "But since you did escape death, why this strange move? And where are you going?"

"A sudden whim, my dear. I'm joining a very great pal of mine in Switzerland, and we're going on a walking tour. We might even pop over the border and go into Bessonia."

"Bessonia! Walking tour! My dear Tiny, what has come over you?" She was staring at him in genuine amazement, as if she could hardly believe her ears.

"Sounds a bit grim, doesn't it?" he laughed. "However, that's the programme. I wonder," he added carelessly, "if the Queen would remember me."

"Of course she does, Tiny," she said slowly. "She talked a lot about you when I was there, Give me a cigarette, like a dear."

He handed her the box and struck a match. But he noticed that it was quite an appreciable time before she seemed to be aware of either.

"Tiny," she said, when he had sat down again, "are you serious? Are you really going on a walking tour?"

"Like the headache, my dear—as an excuse it serves. By the way," he went on, "it's funny how little things worry one. I've been trying the whole afternoon to think of the name of that bloke who used to play about with us such a lot when she was over here. I can't get farther than Joe."

"Joe Denver," she said. "I suppose you don't know where he is, Tiny?"

Was it his imagination, or did he detect a certain eager tenseness in the question?

"Not a notion, my dear. I've never seen him since those days. I've a sort of idea he was in Kenya or something like that."

"I wonder if there is any way of getting in touch with him," she went on.

"I suppose an advertisement in the papers would do it in time. But is there any special reason for doing so?"

"Oh! no. I just wondered." She passed her hand over her forehead.

"Mary, dear, you're looking tired," he said quietly. "And worried. Is there anything I can do to help? You know you've only got to say the word."

"You're a dear, Tiny," and her voice was weary. "But there is nothing, old lad, that you or anybody else can do, I fear me."

"Then there is something the matter," he said insistently. "Can't you tell me, dear?"

"That's the devil of it: I can't. And even if I did it wouldn't do any good."

For a moment he hesitated: then he took the plunge.

"Mary, is it anything to do with that bloke you were driving with this afternoon?"

She pressed out her cigarette.

"Tiny, drop it, please. I can't tell you. Let's change the subject. What have you been doing to-day?"

"I lunched with a lad at the Rag," he said. It seemed to him that the moment had come to go at it bald-headed. "One of these mysterious sort of birds who move about behind the scenes, and appear to know everything. He was very full of a murder that took place last night. Some man down Hammersmith way—a waiter."

"It hardly seems of surpassing interest," she remarked.

"He was a waiter at the Fifty-Nine Club, and apparently... Mary dear—"

Every vestige of colour had left her face, and as he sprang towards her she swayed in her chair. Then she pulled herself together and pushed him away.

"It's all right, Tiny. Stupid of me. I suddenly felt faint. I'm not very fit these days. Tell me about this murder."

"There is very little to tell. The man was killed by some new and hitherto unknown poison. The only point of interest is that apparently he wasn't a waiter at all, but some secret service agent."

And once again every vestige of colour left her cheeks.

"Why on earth should they want a secret service agent at the Fifty-Nine?" she asked at length.

Tiny shrugged his shoulders as if the matter had already begun to bore him, though his heart was aching for her. What was the best thing to do? Should he put all his cards on the table? Should he tell her exactly what he suspected and implore her to confide in him what the trouble was? Finally he decided to temporize.

"Ask me another, my dear. I believe some pretty rum things go on in the private rooms there."

"It was a waiter for one of the private rooms, was it?"

"Number 7," he said, and stared straight at her. But by this time she had controlled her expression, and the shot missed.

"Poor fellow," she said. "Do you think that dark deeds of treason were being discussed in the room, and that he overheard them?"

"Nobody seems to know what went on in the room, or even who was there, because he never sent in a report. In fact, the only thing that seems to have come out up to date is that the table was decorated with mauve orchids."

"My dear Tiny," she said lightly, "what on earth are you looking at me like that for? Why shouldn't the table be decorated with mauve orchids?"

"Mary dear," he answered steadily, "I'm going to chance it. I must. Was it you who was having supper in that room last night?

"You must be mad, Tiny," she cried angrily.

"I wish I was, Mary. Listen, my dear, for it's got to be told. This bloke I was lunching with to-day simply appalled me with his inside knowledge. For instance, he knows that you had supper at the Fifty-Nine Club in a private room about six weeks ago with a notorious blackmailer called Felton Blake."

"Go on, please," she remarked icily. "I was always given to understand that women's names were not bandied about in men's clubs."

"My dear," he pleaded, "for God's sake, get it right. There was no question of your name being bandied about. We were having a private talk after lunch."

"The upshot of which appears to be that you, a man whom I have always regarded as a friend, come round here to spy on me. I suppose whatever you find out will be added to this gentleman's inside knowledge."

"Mary," he cried passionately, "you can't think I'd be such a swine as that. Don't you see, my dear, that if you are in trouble—if this swab has a hold over you in any way—it's vital that someone should help you."

"What I see is the most unwarrantable interference in my private affairs. I foolishly imagined that if I did choose to have supper six weeks ago at the Fifty-Nine it was my concern and nobody else's."

"Even if the man you had supper with is a notorious blackmailer?" asked Tiny.

"Even if he is a murderer, forger and thief rolled into one. What business is it of anyone else's?" she cried passionately. "And anyway, what are you driving at now? Even if I did have supper last night at the Fifty-Nine, am I supposed to be responsible for this so-called waiter's death?"

Tiny got up a little wearily.

"Then you won't tell me, Mary dear? You won't let me help you."

For a moment her eyes softened: then she shook her head.

"I wish I could, Tiny: how I wish I could. Forgive me, old man—I've been talking out of my turn a bit. I didn't mean all that about spying on me: I do know you were trying to help. But it's useless, my dear—useless."

"Mary, my dear," he stammered, "would it be useless if I were in—well, in a position to look after you?"

"Bless his heart: he's proposing." She gave a tender little laugh. "Bend down, Tiny." For a moment or two she stared at him: then she kissed him on the lips. "Now run away, my dear, and forget all about it."

And Tiny, being a man of understanding, went away. Just once by the door he turned round and looked at her, and it seemed to him that she looked weary unto death. Then a little blindly he went out into the sunlit street.