on the girl.

"I mean disguise yourself," said Dorothy, dropping her eyes beneath his
gaze.

"Why?" The interrogation was rapped out in such a tone as to cause the
girl to shrink back slightly.

"They wouldn't know and then it wouldn't----" she hesitated.

"Wouldn't what?" he demanded.

"Get your goat," said Dorothy after a moment's hesitation.

He continued to gaze intently at Dorothy, who was absorbed in a blank
page of her note-book.

"Here, take this down;" and he proceeded to dictate.

"MY DEAR MR. BLAIR,--

"I am in receipt of yours of to-day's date. Will you tell Sir Lyster
that I have bought a machine-gun, a blue beard, false eyebrows, and
Miss West and I are going to do bayonet drill every morning with a
pillow.

"With kind regards,
"Yours sincerely."

For a few moments Dorothy sat regarding her book with knitted brows.
"I don't think I should send that, if I were you, Mr. Dene," she said
at length.

"Why not?" he demanded, unaccustomed to having his orders questioned.

"It sounds rather flippant, doesn't it?"

John Dene smiled grimly, and as he made no further comment, Dorothy
struck out the letter from her note-book.

All through the morning John Dene threw off letters. The way in which
he did his dictating reminded Dorothy of a retriever shaking the water
from its coat after a swim. He hurled short, sharp sentences at her,
as if anxious to be rid of them. Sometimes he would sit hunched up at
his table, at others he would spring up and proceed feverishly to pace
about the room.

As she filled page after page of her note-book, Dorothy wondered when
she would have an opportunity of transcribing her notes. Hour after
hour John Dene dictated, in short bursts, interspersed with varying
pauses, during which he seemed to be deep in thought. Once Sir
Bridgman looked in, and Dorothy had a space in which to breathe; but
with the departure of the First Sea Lord the torrent jerked forth
afresh.

At two o'clock Dorothy felt that she must either scream or faint. Her
right hand seemed as if it would drop off. At last she suggested that
even Admiralty typists required lunch. In a flash John Dene seemed to
change into a human being, solicitous and self-reproachful.

"Too bad," he said, as he pulled out his watch. "Why, it's a quarter
after two. You must be all used up. I'm sorry."

"And aren't you hungry as well, Mr. Dene?" she asked, as she closed her
note-book and rose.

"Hungry