honest eyes," she said, "your eyes are not German...
pardon me, I would not insult your race... I mean they are
different from the rest of you. One day, perhaps, those eyes of
yours may persuade me to answer your question. But I don't know
you well enough yet!"

She broke off abruptly, shaking her head.

"I am tired," she sighed and all her haughty manner returned,
"let the old woman show me to my room. I will take dejeuner with
you at one o'clock."

Desmond bowed and stepping out into the hall, called the
housekeeper. Old Martha shuffled off with the girl, leaving
Desmond staring with vacant eyes into the fire. He was conscious
of a feeling of exultation, despite his utter weariness and
craving for sleep. This girl, with her queenly ways, her swiftly
changing moods, her broad gusts of passion, interested him
enormously. If she were the quarry, why, then, the chase were
worth while! But the end? For a brief moment, he had a vision of
that frail, clinging figure swaying up against some blank wall
before a file of levelled rifles.

Then again he seemed to see old Mackwayte lying dead on the
landing of the house at Seven Kings. Had this frail girl done
this unspeakable deed? To send her to the gallows or before a
firing-squad--was this to be the end of his mission? And the
still, small voice of conscience answered: "Yes! that is what
you have come here to do!"

Old Martha came shuffling down the staircase. Desmond called to
her, remembering that he did not yet know where his bedroom was.

"Will you light me up to my room, Martha?" he said, "I want to be
sure that the sheets are not damp!"

So saying he extinguished the lamp on the table and followed the
old woman upstairs.

CHAPTER XII. AT THE MILL HOUSE

Clad in a suit of Mr. Basil Bellward's pyjamas of elaborate
blue-flowered silk, Desmond lay propped up in bed in Mr.
Bellward's luxuriously fitted bedroom, sipping his morning
coffee, and studying with absorbed interest a sheet of blue
foolscap. A number of papers lay strewn about the eiderdown
quilt. At the head of the bed a handsome Sheraton bureau stood
open.

As the French say, Mr. Bellward had refused himself nothing. His
bedroom was most tastefully furnished. The furniture was
mahogany, every piece carefully chosen, and the chintz of
curtains and upholstery was bright and attractive. A most
elaborate mahogany wardrobe was fitted into the wall, and
Desmond, investigating it, had found it to conta