"If you will all sit down," he said, "we'll get down to business."

Despite all distractions, Desmond had been watching for this summons. He had marked down for himself a chair close to the door. For this he now made, after escorting Mrs. Malplaquet to the settee where she sat down beside Behrend. Max took the armchair on the left of the fireplace; while No. 13 perched himself grotesquely on a high music-stool, his long legs curled round the foot. Mortimer stood in his former position on the hearth, his back to the fire.

A very odd-looking band! Desmond commented to himself but he thought he could detect in each of the spies a certain ruthless fanaticism which experience taught him to respect as highly dangerous. And they all had hard eyes!

When they were seated, Mortimer said:

"About the 14th of this month the British Admiralty will begin the work of shipping to France ten divisions of American troops now training in this country. The most extraordinary precautions are being taken to complete this huge undertaking with success.

It seems to me that the moment has come for us to demonstrate the efficiency of our new organization."

He looked round at his audience but no one said a word. Desmond felt very distinctly that there was a hostile atmosphere against Mortimer in that room.

"I asked you to come here to-night," Mortimer went on, "to discuss the plans for sending prompt and accurate information regarding the movements of these transports to the other side. I warn you that this time our mode of procedure will have to be radically different from the methods we have pursued on former occasions. To expend our energies in collecting information at half a dozen different ports of war will be waste of time. The direction of the whole of this enterprise lies in the hands of one man at the Admiralty."

Behrend, who had struck Desmond as a rather taciturn young man, shook his head dubiously.

"That makes things very difficult," he remarked.

"Wait," replied Mortimer. "I agree, it is very difficult, the more so as I have reason to believe that the authorities have discovered the existence of our organization."

Mrs. Malplaquet and Behrend turned to one another simultaneously.

"What did I say?" said Behrend.

"I told you so," said the lady.

"Therefore," Mortimer resumed, "our former activities on the coast will practically be paralyzed. We shall have to confine our operations to London while Max and Mr. Behrend here will be entrusted with the task of getting the news out to our submarines."

No. 13 broke in excitedly.

"Vork in London, vork in London!" he cried. "It is too dangerous, my vriend. Vot do I know of London? Portsmouth" (he called it Portsmouse), "Sout'ampton, the Isle of Vight... good... it is my province. But, London... it is senseless!"

Mortimer turned his gig-lamps on the interrupter.

"You will take your orders from me as before," he said quietly.

Behrend adjusted his pince-nez.

"No. 13 is perfectly right," he remarked, "he knows his territory, and he should be allowed to work there."

"You, too," Mortimer observed in the same calm tone as before, "will take your orders from me!"

With a quick gesture the young man dashed his long black hair out of his eyes.

"Maybe," he replied, "but only as long as I feel sure that your orders are worth following.

"Do you dare..." began Mortimer, shouting.

"... At present," the other continued, as though Mortimer had not spoken. "I don't feel at all sure that they are."

The atmosphere was getting a trifle heated, thought Desmond. If he judged Mortimer aright, he was not the man to let himself be dictated to by anybody. He was wondering how the scene would end when suddenly something caught his eye that took his mind right away from the events going forward in the room.

Opposite him, across the library, was a French window across which the curtains had been drawn. One of the curtains, however, had got looped up on a chair so that there was a gap at the bottom of the window showing the pane.

In this gap was a face pressed up against the gla.s.s. To his astonishment Desmond recognized the weather-beaten features of the odd man, Mr. John Hill. The face remained there only for a brief instant. The next moment it was gone and Desmond's attention was once more claimed by the progress of the conference.

"Do I understand that you refuse to serve under me any longer?"

Mortimer was saying to Behrend, who had risen from the settee and stood facing him.

"As long as you continue to behave as you are doing at present,"

replied the other, "you may understand that!"

Mortimer made a quick dive for his pocket. In an instant Max had jumped at him and caught his arm.

"Don't be a fool!" he cried, "for Gawd's sake, put it away, carn't yer? D 'you want the 'ole ruddy plice abart our ears?"

"I'll have no disobedience of orders," roared Mortimer, struggling with the other. In his fist he had a big automatic pistol. It was a prodigious weapon, the largest pistol that Desmond had ever seen.

"He threatened him, he threatened him!" screamed No. 13 jumping about on his stool.

"Take it away from him, Max, for Heaven's sake!" cried the lady.

Everybody was talking at once. The noise was so loud that Desmond wondered whether old Martha would hear the din. He sat in his chair by the door, a silent witness of the scene. Then suddenly, at the height of the hubbub, he heard the faint humming of a motor-car. It lasted for perhaps thirty seconds, then gradually died away.

"What did it mean?" he asked himself. The only living being he knew of outside was John Hill, the odd man, whose face he had just seen; the only car was Mortimer's. Had the odd man gone off in Mortimer's car? He was thankful to note that, in the din, none save him seemed to have heard the car.

By this time Mortimer had put up his pistol and Mrs. Malplaquet was speaking. Her remarks were effective and very much to the point. She upbraided Mortimer with his long and mysterious absences which she attributed to his infatuation for Nur-el-Din and complained bitterly of the dancer's imprudence in consorting openly with notorious folk like Lazarro and Bryan Mowbury.

"I went to the girl myself," she said, "and begged her to be more circ.u.mspect. But Madame would not listen to advice; Madame was doubtless sure of her position with our revered leader, and thought she could reject the friendly counsel of one old enough to be her mother. Behrend and Max and No. 13 there--all of us--are absolutely agreed that we are not going on with this sort of thing any longer. If you are to remain in charge of our organization, Mr. Mortimer, we want to know where you are to be found and how you spend your time. In short, we want to be sure that you are not playing a game that most of us have at different times played on subordinate agents... I mean, that when the crisis comes, we fall into the trap and you walk away. You had better realize once and for all that we are too old hands for that sort of trick."

Here Max took up the thread. "Mrs. Malplaquet had put it very strite, so she 'ad, and wot he wanted to know was what Mortimer 'ad to siy?"

Mortimer was very suave in his reply; a bad sign, thought Desmond, for it indicated that he was not sure of himself. He was rather vague, spoke about a vitally important mission that he had had to fulfil but which he had now brought to a successful conclusion, so that he was at length free to devote his whole attention once more to the great task in hand.

Behrend brought his fist crashing down on the arm of the settee.

"Words, words," he cried, "it won't do for me. Isn't there a man in the room besides me? You, Bellward, or you, Max, or you, No.13? Haven't you got any guts any of You? Are you going to sit here and listen to the soft soap of a fellow who has probably sent better men than himself to their death with tripe of this kind? It may do for you, but by the Lord, it won't do for me!"

Mortimer cleared his throat uneasily.

"Our host is silent," said Mrs. Malplaquet, "what does Mr.

Bellward think about it?"

Desmond spoke up promptly.

"I think it would be very interesting to hear something further about this mission of Mortimer's," he observed:

Mortimer cast him a glance of bitter malice.