"Au revoir, ma petite," she said, "we shall meet again. You will
come and see me, nest-ce pas? And say nothing to anybody
about..." she pointed to Barbara's bag where the little package
was reposing, "it shall be a secret between us, hein? Promise me
this, mon enfant!"
"Of course, I promise, if you like!" said Barbara, wonderingly.
At half-past eight the next morning Desmond Okewood found himself
in the ante-room of the Chief of the Secret Service in a cross
and puzzled mood. The telephone at his bedside had roused him at
8 a.m. from the first sleep he had had in a real bed for two
months. In a drowsy voice he had protested that he had an
appointment at the War Office at 10 o'clock, but a curt voice had
bidden him dress himself and come to the Chief forthwith. Here he
was, accordingly, breakfastless, his chin smarting from a hasty
shave. What the devil did the Chief want with him anyhow? He
wasn't in the Secret Service, though his brother, Francis, was.
A voice broke in upon his angry musing.
"Come in, Okewood!" it said.
The Chief stood at the door of his room, a broad-shouldered
figure in a plain jacket suit. Desmond had met him before. He
knew him for a man of many questions but of few confidences, yet
his recollection of him was of a suave, imperturbable
personality.
Pages:
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50