As they zigzagged in and out of the traffic, Desmond's thoughts
were busy with the extraordinary mission entrusted to him. So he
was to sink his own identity and don that of an Anglo-German
business man, his appearance, accent, habits, everything. The
difficulties of the task positively made him cold with fear. The
man must have relations, friends, business acquaintances who
would be sufficiently familiar with his appearance and manner to
penetrate, at any rate in the long run, the most effective
disguise. What did Bellward look like? Where did lie live? How
was he, Desmond, to disguise himself to resemble him? And, above
all, when this knotty problem of make-up had been settled, how
was he to proceed? What should be his first step to pick out from
among all the millions of London's teeming populace the one
obscure individual who headed and directed this gang of spies?
Why hadn't he asked the Chief all these questions? What an
annoying man the Chief was to deal with to be sure! All said and
done, what had he actually told Desmond? That there was a German
Secret service organization spying on the movements of troops to
France, that this man, Basil Bellward, who had been arrested, was
one of the gang and that the dancer, Nur-el-Din, was in some way
implicated in the affair! And that was the extent of his
confidence! On the top of all this fog of obscurity rested the
dense cloud surrounding the murder of old Mackwayte with the
unexplained, the fantastic, clue of that single hair pointing
back to Nur-el-Din.
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