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"The letter was, in all probability, written by a German!" There was a moment's silence. Desmond was thinking despairingly of the seeming hopelessness of untangling this intricate webwork of tangled threads. "And this murder, sir," he began. The Chief shrugged his shoulders. "The motive, Okewood, I am searching for the motive.
He couldn't take a note of any kind, of course, but he seems to have a wonderful memory. He was able to give us the names of almost every unit of troops he came across." He stopped to skirt a tram, then added suddenly: "Do you know him well, Okewood?" "Yes, I think I do," said Desmond. "I lived with him for about three months in France, and we got on top-hole together.
But Bellward had grasped the dancer by the two arms and forced her up the stairs in front of him. Nur-el-Din seemed too overcome with terror to utter a sound. "Oh, don't be so rough with her, Major Okewood!" entreated Barbara, "you'll hurt her!" She had her back turned to Strangwise so she missed the very remarkable change that came over his features at her words.
The latter had probably read the name of Okewood in that morning's casualty list, but Desmond felt more than ever that he distrusted the man, and his continued presence in the neighborhood of Nur-el-Din gravely preoccupied him. He stood a moment by the open window and listened.
Why did you send for me? What have you got to do with criminal cases, anyway? Surely, this is a Scotland Yard matter!" The Chief shook his head. "I sent for you in default of your brother, Okewood!" he said. "You once refused an offer of mine to take you into my service, but this time I had to have you, so I got the War Office to wire..." "Then my appointment for ten o'clock to-day was with you?"
"Okewood," he said, "you are the very model of discretion. I have put your reticence to a pretty severe test this morning, and you have stood it very well. But I can see that you are bristling with questions like a porcupine with quills. Zero hour has arrived. You may fire away!" They were sitting in the smoking-room of the United Service Club.
Action, or the promise of action, always acted on Desmond Okewood like a nerve tonic. His visit to the inn, followed by the fencing with Mortimer at dinner, had galvanized his nerves jaded with the inaction of the preceding days. He averted his eyes from the future, he put the past resolutely away.
After that..." "But," Desmond interrupted quickly, "I must have been followed by one of your men. Still, I can't see why my movements should interest the Secret Service, sir!" The Chief remained silent for a moment. Then he said: "Fate often unexpectedly takes a hand in this game of ours, Okewood. I sent for you to come back from France but old man Destiny wouldn't leave it at that.
"But do you believe then, that Nur-el-Din murdered-old Mackwayte? My dear Chief, the idea is preposterous..." The Chief rose from his chair with a sigh. "Nothing is preposterous in our work, Okewood," he replied. "But it's 3.25, and my French colleague hates to be kept waiting." "I thought you were seeing Strangwise, at two?" asked Desmond.
"I was worn out last night and I could not look at things in their proper light. If you could spare me a few hours more...." I put a touch of pleading into my voice, which struck him at once. "I am not unreasonable, my dear Captain Okewood," he replied, "but you will understand that I am not to be trifled with, so I give you fair warning. I will give you until...."
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