Desmond scrambled into his coat and followed the Captain down the steps to the deck. A little distance away from the vessel, the long shape of a destroyer was dimly visible tossing to and fro in the heavy swell. A ladder had been let down over the side of the steamer, and at its foot a boat, manned by a number of heavily swathed and m.u.f.fled forms, was pitching.

A few officers stood by the rail watching the scene with interest. The skipper adroitly piloted Desmond past them and fairly thrust him out on to the ladder.

Desmond took the hint and with a hasty "Good night" to the friendly captain, staggered down the swaying ladder and was helped into the boat. The boat shoved off, the bell of the engine telegraph on the steamer resounded sharply, and the vessel resumed her interrupted voyage whilst the rowing boat was headed towards the destroyer. On board the latter vessel an officer met Desmond at the rail and piloted him to the ward-room. Almost before they got there, the destroyer was under way.

The officer who had welcomed him proved to be the second in command, a joyous person who did the honors of the tiny ward-room with the aplomb of a Commander in a super-Dreadnought. He mixed Desmond a drink and immediately started to converse about life at the front without giving the other a chance of asking whither they were bound.

The suspense was not of long duration, however, for in about half an hour's time, the destroyer slowed down and Desmond's host vanished. When he reappeared, it was to summon Desmond on deck.

They lay aside a mole by some steps cut in the solid concrete.

Here Desmond's host took leave of him.

"There should be a car waiting for you up there," he said.

There on top of the mole, exposed to the keen blast of the wind, a large limousine was standing. A chauffeur, who looked blue with cold, got down from his seat as Desmond emerged from the stairs and touched his cap.

"Major Okewood?" he asked.

"That's my name!" said Desmond.

"If you'll get in, sir, we'll start at once!" the man replied.

Befogged and bewildered, Desmond entered the car, which cautiously proceeded along the breakwater, with glimpses of black water and an occasional dim light on either hand. They b.u.mped over the railway-lines and rough cobblestones of a dockyard, glided through a slumbering town, and so gradually drew out into the open country where the car gathered speed and fairly raced along the white, winding road. Desmond had not the faintest idea of their whereabouts or ultimate destination. He was fairly embarked on the great adventure now, and he was philosophically content to let Fate have its way with him. He found himself wondering rather indolently what the future had in store.

The car slowed down and the chauffeur switched the headlights on.

Their blinding glare revealed some white gate-posts at the entrance of a quiet country station. Desmond looked at his watch.

It was half-past one. The car stopped at the entrance to the booking-office where a man in an overcoat and bowler was waiting.

"This way, Major, please," said the man in the bowler, and led the way into the dark and silent station. At the platform a short train consisting of an engine, a Pullman car and a brakesman's van stood, the engine under steam. By the glare from the furnace Desmond recognized his companion. It was Matthews, the Chief's confidential clerk.

Matthews held open the door of the Pullman for Desmond and followed him into the carriage. A gruff voice in the night shouted:

"All right, Charley!" a light was waved to and fro, and the special pulled out of the echoing station into the darkness beyond.

In the corner of, the Pullman a table was laid for supper. There was a cold chicken, a salad, and a bottle of claret. On another table was a large tin box and a mirror with a couple of electric lights before it. At this table was seated a small man with gray hair studying a large number of photographs.

"If you will have your supper, Major Okewood, sir," said Matthews, "Mr. Crook here will get to work. We've not got too much time."

The sea air had made Desmond ravenously hungry. He sat down promptly and proceeded to demolish the chicken and make havoc of the salad. Also he did full justice to the very excellent St.

Estephe.

As he ate he studied Matthews, who was one of those undefinable Englishmen one meets in tubes and 'buses, who might be anything from a rate collector to a rat catcher. He had sandy hair plastered limply across his forehead, a small moustache, and a pair of watery blue eyes. Mr. Crook, who continued his study of his a.s.sortment of photographs without taking the slightest notice of Desmond, was a much more alert looking individual, with a shock of iron gray hair brushed back and a small pointed beard.

"Matthew's," said Desmond as he supped, "would it be indiscreet to ask where we are?"

"In Kent, Major," replied Matthews.

"What station was that we started from?"

"Faversham."

"And where are we going, might I inquire?"

"To Cannon Street, sir!"

"And from there?"

Mr. Matthews coughed discreetly.

"I can't really say, sir, I'm sure! A car will meet you there and I can go home to bed."

The ends sealed again! thought Desmond. What a man of caution, the Chief!

"And this gentleman here, Matthews?" asked Desmond, lighting one of the skipper's cigars.

"That, sir, is Mr. Crook, who does any little jobs we require in the way of make-up. Our expert on resemblances, if I may put it that way, sir, for we really do very little in the way of disguises. Mr. Crook is an observer of what I may call people's points, sir, their facial appearance, their little peculiarities of manner, of speech, of gait. Whenever there is any question of a disguise, Mr. Crook is called in to advise as to the possibilities of success. I believe I am correct in saying, Crook, that you have been engaged on the Major here for some time. Isn't it so?"

Crook looked up a minute from his table.

"That's right," he said shortly, and resumed his occupation of examining the photographs.

"And what's your opinion about this disguise of mine?" Desmond asked him.

"I can make a good job of you, Major," said the expert, "and so I reported to the Chief. You'll want to do your hair a bit different and let your beard grow, and then, if you pay attention to the lessons I shall give you, in a week or two, you'll be this chap here," and he tapped the photograph in his hand, "to the life."

So saying he handed Desmond the photograph. It was the portrait of a man about forty years of age, of rather a p.r.o.nounced Continental type, with a short brown beard, a straight, rather well-shaped nose and gold-rimmed spectacles. His hair was cut en brosse, and he was rather full about the throat and neck. Without a word, Desmond stretched out his hand and gathered up a sheaf of other photos, police photos of Mr. Basil Bellward, front face and profile seen from right and left, all these poses shown on the same picture, some snapshots and various camera studies. Desmond shook his head in despair. He was utterly unable to detect the slightest resemblance between himself and this rather commonplace looking type of business man.

"Now if you'd just step into the compartment at the end of the Pullman, Major," said Crook, "you'll find some civilian clothes laid out. Would you mind putting them on? You needn't trouble about the collar and tie, or coat and waistcoat for the moment.

Then we'll get along with the work."

The train rushed swaying on through the darkness. Desmond was back in the Pullman car in a few minutes arrayed in a pair of dark gray tweed trousers, a white shirt and black boots and socks. A cut-away coat and waistcoat of the same tweed stuff, a black bowler hat of rather an old-fashioned and staid pattern, and a black overcoat with a velvet collar, he left in the compartment where he changed.

He found that Crook had opened his tin box and set out a great array of grease paints, wigs, twists of tow of various colors, and a number of pots and phials of washes and unguents together with a whole battery of fine paint brushes. In his hand he held a pair of barber's clippers and the tips of a comb and a pair of scissors protruded from his vest pocket.

Crook whisked a barber's wrap round Desmond and proceeded, with clippers and scissors, to crop and trim his crisp black hair.

"Tst-tst" he clicked with his tongue. "I didn't realize your hair was so dark, Major. It'll want a dash of henna to lighten it."

The man worked with incredible swiftness. His touch was light and sure, and Desmond, looking at his reflection in the gla.s.s, wondered to see what fine; delicate hands this odd little expert possessed. Matthews sat and smoked in silence and watched the operation, whilst the special ran on steadily Londonwards.

When the clipping was done, Crook smeared some stuff on a towel and wrapped it round Desmond's head.

"That'll brighten your hair up a lot, sir. Now for a crepe beard just to try the effect. We've got to deliver you at Cannon Street ready for the job, Mr. Matthews and me, but you won't want to worry with this nasty messy beard once you get indoors. You can grow your own beard, and I'll pop in and henna it a bit for you every now and then."

There was the smart of spirit gum on Desmond's cheeks and Crook gently applied a strip of tow to his face. He had taken the mirror away so that Desmond could no longer see the effect of the gradual metamorphosis.

"A mirror only confuses me," said the expert, breathing hard as he delicately adjusted the false beard, "I've got this picture firm in my head, and I want to get it transferred to your face.

Somehow a mirror puts me right off. It's the reality I want."