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Then there is another leak to be caulked, another rat-hole to be nailed up, and so the game goes on. Hitherto I think I may say we have managed to hold our own!" The Chief stopped to light another cigarette. Then he resumed but in a lower voice. "During the past month, Okewood," he said, "a new organization has cropped up.
Only the dank mist swirled in ever denser about her as she stood beneath the dripping porch. "This won't do!" said Barbara, pulling herself together. "I mustn't get frightened, whatever I do! Major Okewood is very well capable of defending himself. What's happened is that the man has been called away and the servants have taken advantage of his absence to go out!
"I know a little of Clubfoot's record, of innocent lives wrecked, of careers ruined, of sudden disappearances, of violent deaths. When you and your brother put it across der Stelze, Okewood, you settled a long outstanding account we had against him, but you also rendered his fellow-Huns a signal service."
"Run her upstairs," he said quickly to Bellward who had followed behind him, "and lock her in her room. I've seen to the rest. You, Miss Mackwayte," he added to Barbara, "you will come with us!" Barbara was staring in fascination at Bellward. She had never believed that any disguise could be so baffling, so complete; Major Okewood, she thought, looked like a different man.
"Well," he said, "Major Okewood here, what I used to know along of my brother being his servant, says as how you gentlemen'll make it all right about my stoppin' absent if I tells you what I know about this orficer. Tell it I will and gladly; for it was all along of him that I spoiled a clean sheet of eighteen years' service, gentlemen.
Marigold must be the type of detective, though, as I have said, he was totally unacquainted with the genus. "Major Okewood, Marigold," said the Chief, "a friend of mine!" Mr. Marigold mustered Desmond in one swift, comprehensive look. "I won't give you my hand, Major," the detective said, looking down at Desmond's proffered one, "for I'm in a filthy mess and no error.
The distress of the woman in bed was so comic that I could scarcely help laughing. She had dragged the bed-clothes up till only her eyes could be seen. Her pigtails bobbed about in her emotion. "Now, Mary dear, listen here. You're a friend of mine. This is Desmond Okewood, another, a very old and dear friend of mine too.
"Barbara!" said Desmond softly, "you know me! I'm Desmond Okewood! I've come to take you home!" The word "home" seemed to catch the girl's attention; for now she turned her head and looked at the young man. The expression in her eyes, wide and staring, was horrible; for it was the look of a tortured animal.
An officer was standing there in a worn uniform, a very shabby kit-bag by his side, a dirty old Burberry over his arm. "Okewood!" said the young man and touched the other on the shoulder, "isn't it Desmond Okewood? By Jove, I am glad to see you!" The new-comer turned quickly. "Why, hullo," he said, "if it isn't Maurice Strangwise!
And say nothing to anybody about..." she pointed to Barbara's bag where the little package was reposing, "it shall be a secret between us, hein? Promise me this, mon enfant!" "Of course, I promise, if you like!" said Barbara, wonderingly. At half-past eight the next morning Desmond Okewood found himself in the ante-room of the Chief of the Secret Service in a cross and puzzled mood.
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