The Chief nodded.
"Nur-el-Din," he repeated. "That's why you're here, that's why I
had you followed last night, that's why I..." he hesitated for
the word, "let's say, presumed (one knows for certain so little
in our work) that our friend Barney had nothing to do with the
violent death of poor old Mackwayte. Nur-el-Din in the center,
the kernel, the hub of everything!"
The Chief leant across the table and Desmond pulled his chair
closer.
"There's only one other man in the world can handle this job,
except you," he began, "and that's your brother Francis. Do you
know where he is, Okewood?"
"He wrote to me last from Athens," answered Desmond, "but that
must be nearly two months ago."
The Chief laughed.
"His present address is not Athens," he said, "if you want to
know, he's serving on a German Staff somewhere at the back of
Jerusalem the Golden. Frankly, I know you don't care about our
work, and I did my best to get your brother. He has had his
instructions and as soon as he can get away he will. That was not
soon enough for me. It had to be him or you. So I sent for you."
He stopped and cleared his throat. Desmond stared at him. He
could hardly believe his eyes. This quiet, deliberate man was
actually embarrassed.
"Okewood," the Chief went on, "you know I like plain speaking,
and therefore you won't make the mistake of thinking I'm trying
to flatter you.
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