little niche, prompt, punctual, efficient
as ever.

"No, it's not for the letters," the Chief said to her as she came
in with her notebook and pencil. "I'm going to give you a little
trip down to the country this afternoon, Miss Mackwayte... to,
Essex... the Mill House, Wentfield... you know whom it is you are
to see, eh? I'm getting a little restless as we've had no reports
since he arrived there. I had hoped, by this, to have been able
to put him on the track of Nur-el-Din, but, for the moment, it
looks as if we had lost the scent. But you can tell our friend
all we know about the lady's antecedents--what we had from my
French colleague the other day, you know? Let him have all the
particulars about this Barling case--you know about that, don't
you? Good, and, see here, try and find out from our mutual friend
what he intends doing. I don't want to rush him... don't let him
think that... but I should rather like to discover whether he has
formed any plan. And now you get along. There's a good train
about three which gets you down to Wentfield in just under the
hour. Take care of yourself! See you in the morning!"

Pressing a bell with one hand and lifting up a telephone receiver
with the other, the Chief immersed himself again in his work. He
appeared to have forgotten Miss Mackwayte's very existence.

At a quarter to five that evening, Barbara unlatched the front
gate of the Mill House and walked up the drive. She had come on
foot from the station and the exercise had done her good. It had
been a deliciously soft balmy afternoon, but with the fall of
dusk a heavy mist had come creeping up from the sodden, low-lying
fields and was spreading out over the neglected garden of Mr.
Bellward's villa as Barbara entered the avenue.

The damp gloom of the place, however, depressed her not at all.
She exulted in the change of scene and the fresh air; besides,
she knew that the presence of Desmond Okewood would dispel the
vague fears that had hung over her incessantly ever since her
father's murder. She had only met him twice, she told herself
when this thought occurred to her, but there was something
bracing and dependable about him that was just the tonic she
wanted.

A porter at the station, who was very intelligent as country
porters go, had told her the way to the Mill House. The way was
not easy to find for there were various turns to make but, with
the aid of such landmarks as an occasional inn, a pond or a barn,