"I wash my hands of the whole thing," Desmond declared, as he
paced the platform at Wentfield waiting for his train. "As
Francis is so precious cocksure about it all, let him carry on in
my place! He's welcome to the Chief's wiggings! The Chief won't
get me to do his dirty work again in a hurry! That's flat!"
Yet all the while the little gimlet that men call conscience was
patiently drilling its way through the wall of obduracy behind
which Desmond's wounded pride had taken cover. Rail as he would
against his hard treatment at the hands of the Chief, he knew
perfectly well that he could never wash his hands of his mission
until Barbara Mackwayte had been brought back into safety. This
thought kept thrusting itself forward into the foreground of his
mind; and he had to focus his attention steadfastly on his
grievances to push it back again.
But we puny mortals are all puppets in the hands of Fate. Even as
the train was bearing Desmond, thus rebellious, Londonwards,
Destiny was already pulling the strings which was to force the
"quitter" back into the path he had forsaken. For this purpose
Fate had donned the disguise of a dirty-faced man in a greasy old
suit and a spotted handkerchief in lieu of collar... but of him
presently.
On arriving at Liverpool Street, Desmond, painfully conscious of
his unkempt appearance, took a taxi to a Turkish bath in the West
End.
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