had been seen to leave behind him at
restaurants a silver-mounted ebony walking stick. He had, however,
always returned for it a few minutes later, as if having discovered his
loss.

Learning that the stick was of an ordinary stock pattern, Malcolm Sage
gave instructions for one exactly like it to be purchased. An
endeavour was then to be made to effect an exchange with that carried
by Finlay. It was not until a week later that this was effected, and
the stick handed to Thompson.

A careful examination disclosed nothing. The silver nob and ferrule
were removed; but without bringing to light anything in the nature of a
communication.

"It's a wash-out, sir," said Thompson, as he entered Malcolm Sage's
room, the stick in one hand and the knob and ferrule in the other.

Sage glanced up from his desk. Holding out his hand he took the stick
and proceeded to examine it with elaborate care. The wood at the top,
just beneath the knob, had been hollowed out. Sage glanced up at
Thompson interrogatingly.

"Nothing in it, sir," he said, interpreting the question.

"There will be when you next make the exchange," was the dry retort
and, with a motion of dismissal, Malcolm Sage returned to the papers
before him.

"What's the matter, Tommy?" enquired Gladys Norman a few minutes later,
as she came across Thompson gazing at the hollowed-out end of a stick,
and murmuring to himself with suppressed passion.

"I'm the biggest fool in London," said Thompson without looking up.

"Only just discovered it?" she asked casually. "Poor old Tommikins,"
she added, prepared to dodge at the least sign of an offensive movement
on the part of her colleague; but Thompson was too engrossed in
introspective analysis to be conscious of what was taking place about
him.

"We're on the eve of developments," said Malcolm Sage one afternoon
some weeks later, as Colonel Walton entered his room, closing the door
behind him.

"Anything new?" he enquired, dropping into a chair beside Sage's table.

"I'm afraid there's going to be trouble."

"Not resigning?" there was a twinkle in Colonel Walton's eye. In their
infinite variety the resignations of Malcolm Sage would have filled a
Blue Book.

"I don't like the look of things," continued Sage, pulling steadily at
his pipe and ignoring the remark. "Naylor's playing his own game, I'm
sure and," he added, looking up suddenly, "it's an ugly game."

"Bluff, that accusing Finlay of acting on hi