e what----" Mr. Naylor stopped.

"How did you learn this?" He slobbered his words slightly as he spoke.

"I know things, it is my duty," was the response.

"But what proof----?"

With great deliberation Van Helder drew from his pocket a large
envelope; extracting a single sheet of paper he handed it across the
table. Mr. Naylor snatched it eagerly and proceeded to devour it with
his eyes. "I also got a set of plans of a submarine; but it was one of
our own. He is clever, this man."

"How did you get it?"

Van Helder smiled. "How did you get the copy?" he enquired.

"The copy! How did you know?"

Mr. Naylor stared at him, his jaw a little dropped. He swallowed
noisily.

"You have been clumsy," repeated Van Helder. "You try to kill the cock
that lays the eggs of gold." He shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.

Mr. Naylor flushed angrily. "And you?" he almost snarled.

"I am here to watch." He looked across at Mr. Naylor with a cunning
smile. He was at last sure of his ground.

"Watch who?"

Van Helder shrugged his shoulders, and proceeded to light a new
cigarette from the burning end of the old one.

"You must not kill--yet," he said, gazing at the end of his cigarette
to see that it was well alight.

"What then?" demanded Mr. Naylor. His jowls had returned and the
yellow of his teeth was visible between his slightly parted lips.

"Wait and watch," was the reply.

"And let him go North," sneered the other.

"If you kill, where are the plans? Do as you would," he continued
indifferently. "There will be The Day for you, too. Now I go." He
made a movement to rise; but Mr. Naylor motioned him back into his
chair.

Two hours later Mr. Naylor himself let out his visitor. Closing the
front door, he returned to his study, where for an hour he sat at his
table gazing straight in front of him. Mr. Naylor was puzzled.

Conscious that he was being followed by a small man in a grey suit with
shifty eyes, James Finlay made his way leisurely to the High Road where
he took a 'bus bound for Piccadilly Circus.

CHAPTER VIII

DOROTHY WEST AT HOME

"Mother mine," cried Dorothy West, as she withdrew the pins from her
hat, "John Dene's a dear, and I think his passion for me is developing."

"Dorothy!" cried Mrs. West, a tiny white-haired lady whose face still
retained traces of youthful beauty.

"You needn't be shocked, lovie; John Dene is as worthy as his namesake
in _Evangeline_."