"Whom do you meant" asked Desmond.
"Where are your eyes, man?" rapped out Mrs. Malplaquet. "The
dancer woman, of course, Nur-el-what-do-you-call-it. There's the
devil of a row brewing about the way our friend over there is
neglecting us to run after the minx. They're getting sharp in
this country, Bellward--I've lived here for forty years so I know
what I'm talking about--and we can't afford to play any tricks.
Mortimer will finish by bringing destruction on every one of us.
And I shall tell him so tonight. And so will No. 13! And so will
young Behrend! You ought to hear Behrend about it!"
Mrs. Malplaquet began to interest Desmond. She was obviously a
woman of refinement, and he was surprised to find her in this odd
company. By dint of careful questioning, he ascertained the fact
that she lived in London, at a house on Campden Hill. She seemed
to know a good many officers, particularly naval men.
"I've been keeping my eyes open as I promised, Bellward," she
said, "and I believe I've got hold of a likely subject for you--a
submarine commander he is, and very psychic. When will you come
and meet him at my house?"
Mortimer's voice, rising above the buzz of conversation, checked
his reply.
"If you will all sit down," he said, "we'll get down to
business.
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