CHAPTER IX.METAMORPHOSIS

CHAPTER IX.METAMORPHOSISIt was a clear, cold night. A knife-edge icy wind blew from the north-east and kept the lanyards dismally flapping on the flag-mast over the customs house. The leave train lay in the station within a biscuit’s throw of the quayside and the black, blank Channel beyond, a long line of cheerfully illuminated windows that to those returning from leave seemed as the last link with home.The Corporal of Military Police, who stood at the gangway examining the passes, stopped Desmond Okewood as the latter held out his pass into the rays of the man’s lantern.“There was a message for you, sir,” said the Corporal. “The captain of the Staff boat would h-esteem it a favor, sir, if you would kindly go to his cabin immediately on h-arriving on board, sir!”“Very good, Corporal!” answered the officer and passed up the gang plank, enviously regarded by the press of brass-hats and red-tabs who, for the most part, had a cramped berth below or cold quarters on deck to look forward to.A seaman directed Desmond to the Captain’s cabin. It was built out just behind the bridge, a snug, cheery room with bright chintz curtains over the carefully screened portholes, a couple of comfortable benches with leather seats along the walls, a small bunk, and in the middle of the floor a table set out with a bottle of whiskey, a siphon and some glasses together with a box of cigars.The Captain was sitting there chatting to the pilot, a short, enormously broad man with a magenta face and prodigious hands which were folded round a smoking glass of toddy.“Pick ’em up? Rescue ’em?” the pilot ejaculated, as Desmond walked in, “I’d let ’em sink, every man Jack o’ them, the outrageous murderin’ scoundrels. I don’t like to hear you a-talking of such nonsense, Cap’en!”On Desmond’s entrance the Captain broke off the conversation. He proved to be a trimly-built man of about fifty with a grizzled beard, and an air of quiet efficiency which is not uncommonly found in seamen. The pilot drained his glass and, scrambling to his feet, nodded to Desmond and stumped out into the cold night air.“Jawin’ about the U boats!” said the Captain, with a jerk of his head towards the cabin door, “I don’t know what the feelings of your men in the trenches are towards Fritz, Major, but I tell you that no German will dare set foot in any coast port of the United Kingdom in my life-time or yours, either! Accommodation’s a bit narrow on board. I thought maybe you’d care to spend the night up here!”“Any orders about me?” asked Desmond.The Captain went a shade deeper mahogany in the face.“Oh no,” he replied, with an elaborate assumption of innocence. “But won’t you mix yourself a drink? And try one of my cigars, a present from a skipper friend of mine who sailed into Tilbury from Manila last week.”Desmond sat in the snug cabin, puffing a most excellent cigar and sipping his whiskey and soda while, amid much shouting of seamen and screaming of windlasses, the staff boat got clear. Presently they were gliding past long low moles and black, inhospitable lighthouses, threading their way through the dark shapes of war craft of all kinds into the open Channel. There was a good deal of swell, but the sea was calm, and the vessel soon steadied down to regular rise and fall.They had been steaming for nearly an hour when, through the open door of the cabin, Desmond saw a seaman approach the captain on the bridge. He handed the skipper a folded paper.“From the wireless operator, sir!” Desmond heard him say.The skipper scanned it. Then the engine telegraph rang sharply, there was the sound of churning water, and the vessel slowed down. The next moment the Captain appeared at the door of the cabin.“I’m afraid we’re going to lose you, Major,” he said pleasantly, “a destroyer is coming up to take you off. There was a wireless from the Admiral about you.”“Where are they going to take me, do you know?” asked Desmond.The Captain shook his head.“I haven’t an idea. I’ve only got to hand you over!”He grinned and added:“Where’s your kit?”“In the hold, I expect!” answered Desmond. “The porter at Victoria told me not to worry about it, and that I should find it on the other side. And, oh damn it!—I’ve got a hundred cigarettes in my kit, too! I bought them specially for the journey!”“Well, take some of my cigars,” said the skipper hospitably, “for your traps’ll have to go to France this trip, Major. There’s no time to get ’em up now. I’ll pass the word to the Military Landing Officer over there about ’em, if you like. He’ll take care of ’em for you. Now will you come with me?”Desmond scrambled into his coat and followed the Captain down the steps to the deck. A little distance away from the vessel, the long shape of a destroyer was dimly visible tossing to and fro in the heavy swell. A ladder had been let down over the side of the steamer, and at its foot a boat, manned by a number of heavily swathed and muffled forms, was pitching.A few officers stood by the rail watching the scene with interest. The skipper adroitly piloted Desmond past them and fairly thrust him out on to the ladder.Desmond took the hint and with a hasty “Good night” to the friendly captain, staggered down the swaying ladder and was helped into the boat. The boat shoved off, the bell of the engine telegraph on the steamer resounded sharply, and the vessel resumed her interrupted voyage whilst the rowing boat was headed towards the destroyer. On board the latter vessel an officer met Desmond at the rail and piloted him to the ward-room. Almost before they got there, the destroyer was under way.The officer who had welcomed him proved to be the second in command, a joyous person who did the honors of the tiny ward-room with the aplomb of a Commander in a super-Dreadnought. He mixed Desmond a drink and immediately started to converse about life at the front without giving the other a chance of asking whither they were bound.The suspense was not of long duration, however, for in about half an hour’s time, the destroyer slowed down and Desmond’s host vanished. When he reappeared, it was to summon Desmond on deck.They lay aside a mole by some steps cut in the solid concrete. Here Desmond’s host took leave of him.“There should be a car waiting for you up there,” he said.There on top of the mole, exposed to the keen blast of the wind, a large limousine was standing. A chauffeur, who looked blue with cold, got down from his seat as Desmond emerged from the stairs and touched his cap.“Major Okewood?” he asked.“That’s my name!” said Desmond.“If you’ll get in, sir, we’ll start at once!” the man replied.Befogged and bewildered, Desmond entered the car, which cautiously proceeded along the breakwater, with glimpses of black water and an occasional dim light on either hand. They bumped over the railway-lines and rough cobblestones of a dockyard, glided through a slumbering town, and so gradually drew out into the open country where the car gathered speed and fairly raced along the white, winding road. Desmond had not the faintest idea of their whereabouts or ultimate destination. He was fairly embarked on the great adventure now, and he was philosophically content to let Fate have its way with him. He found himself wondering rather indolently what the future had in store.The car slowed down and the chauffeur switched the headlights on. Their blinding glare revealed some white gate-posts at the entrance of a quiet country station. Desmond looked at his watch. It was half-past one. The car stopped at the entrance to the booking-office where a man in an overcoat and bowler was waiting.“This way, Major, please,” said the man in the bowler, and led the way into the dark and silent station. At the platform a short train consisting of an engine, a Pullman car and a brakesman’s van stood, the engine under steam. By the glare from the furnace Desmond recognized his companion. It was Matthews, the Chief’s confidential clerk.Matthews held open the door of the Pullman for Desmond and followed him into the carriage. A gruff voice in the night shouted:“All right, Charley!” a light was waved to and fro, and the special pulled out of the echoing station into the darkness beyond.In the corner of the Pullman a table was laid for supper. There was a cold chicken, a salad, and a bottle of claret. On another table was a large tin box and a mirror with a couple of electric lights before it. At this table was seated a small man with gray hair studying a large number of photographs.“If you will have your supper, Major Okewood, sir,” said Matthews, “Mr. Crook here will get to work. We’ve not got too much time.”The sea air had made Desmond ravenously hungry. He sat down promptly and proceeded to demolish the chicken and make havoc of the salad. Also he did full justice to the very excellent St. Estephe.As he ate he studied Matthews, who was one of those undefinable Englishmen one meets in tubes and ’buses, who might be anything from a rate collector to a rat catcher. He had sandy hair plastered limply across his forehead, a small moustache, and a pair of watery blue eyes. Mr. Crook, who continued his study of his assortment of photographs without taking the slightest notice of Desmond, was a much more alert looking individual, with a shock of iron gray hair brushed back and a small pointed beard.“Matthew’s,” said Desmond as he supped, “would it be indiscreet to ask where we are?”“In Kent, Major,” replied Matthews.“What station was that we started from?”“Faversham.”“And where are we going, might I inquire?”“To Cannon Street, sir!”“And from there?”Mr. Matthews coughed discreetly.“I can’t really say, sir, I’m sure! A car will meet you there and I can go home to bed.”The ends sealed again! thought Desmond. What a man of caution, the Chief!“And this gentleman here, Matthews?” asked Desmond, lighting one of the skipper’s cigars.“That, sir, is Mr. Crook, who does any little jobs we require in the way of make-up. Our expert on resemblances, if I may put it that way, sir, for we really do very little in the way of disguises. Mr. Crook is an observer of what I may call people’s points, sir, their facial appearance, their little peculiarities of manner, of speech, of gait. Whenever there is any question of a disguise, Mr. Crook is called in to advise as to the possibilities of success. I believe I am correct in saying, Crook, that you have been engaged on the Major here for some time. Isn’t it so?”Crook looked up a minute from his table.“That’s right,” he said shortly, and resumed his occupation of examining the photographs.“And what’s your opinion about this disguise of mine?” Desmond asked him.“I can make a good job of you, Major,” said the expert, “and so I reported to the Chief. You’ll want to do your hair a bit different and let your beard grow, and then, if you pay attention to the lessons I shall give you, in a week or two, you’ll be this chap here,” and he tapped the photograph in his hand, “to the life.”So saying he handed Desmond the photograph. It was the portrait of a man about forty years of age, of rather a pronounced Continental type, with a short brown beard, a straight, rather well-shaped nose and gold-rimmed spectacles. His hair was cuten brosse, and he was rather full about the throat and neck. Without a word, Desmond stretched out his hand and gathered up a sheaf of other photos, police photos of Mr. Basil Bellward, front face and profile seen from right and left, all these poses shown on the same picture, some snapshots and various camera studies. Desmond shook his head in despair. He was utterly unable to detect the slightest resemblance between himself and this rather commonplace looking type of business man.“Now if you’d just step into the compartment at the end of the Pullman, Major,” said Crook, “you’ll find some civilian clothes laid out. Would you mind putting them on? You needn’t trouble about the collar and tie, or coat and waistcoat for the moment. Then we’ll get along with the work.”The train rushed swaying on through the darkness. Desmond was back in the Pullman car in a few minutes arrayed in a pair of dark gray tweed trousers, a white shirt and black boots and socks. A cut-away coat and waistcoat of the same tweed stuff, a black bowler hat of rather an old-fashioned and staid pattern, and a black overcoat with a velvet collar, he left in the compartment where he changed.He found that Crook had opened his tin box and set out a great array of grease paints, wigs, twists of tow of various colors, and a number of pots and phials of washes and unguents together with a whole battery of fine paint brushes. In his hand he held a pair of barber’s clippers and the tips of a comb and a pair of scissors protruded from his vest pocket.Crook whisked a barber’s wrap round Desmond and proceeded, with clippers and scissors, to crop and trim his crisp black hair.“Tst-tst” he clicked with his tongue. “I didn’t realize your hair was so dark, Major. It’ll want a dash of henna to lighten it.”The man worked with incredible swiftness. His touch was light and sure, and Desmond, looking at his reflection in the glass, wondered to see what fine; delicate hands this odd little expert possessed. Matthews sat and smoked in silence and watched the operation, whilst the special ran on steadily Londonwards.When the clipping was done, Crook smeared some stuff on a towel and wrapped it round Desmond’s head.“That’ll brighten your hair up a lot, sir. Now for a crepe beard just to try the effect. We’ve got to deliver you at Cannon Street ready for the job, Mr. Matthews and me, but you won’t want to worry with this nasty messy beard once you get indoors. You can grow your own beard, and I’ll pop in and henna it a bit for you every now and then.”There was the smart of spirit gum on Desmond’s cheeks and Crook gently applied a strip of tow to his face. He had taken the mirror away so that Desmond could no longer see the effect of the gradual metamorphosis.“A mirror only confuses me,” said the expert, breathing hard as he delicately adjusted the false beard, “I’ve got this picture firm in my head, and I want to get it transferred to your face. Somehow a mirror puts me right off. It’s the reality I want.”As he grew more absorbed in his work, he ceased to speak altogether. He finished the beard, trimmed the eyebrows, applied a dash of henna with a brush, leaning backwards continually to survey the effect. He sketched in a wrinkle or two round the eyes with a pencil, wiped them out, then put them in again. Then he fumbled in his tin box, and produced two thin slices of grey rubber.“Sorry,” he said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to wear these inside your cheeks to give the effect of roundness. You’ve got an oval face and the other man has a round one. I can get the fullness of the throat by giving you a very low collar, rather open and a size too large for you.”Desmond obediently slipped the two slices of rubber into his mouth and tucked them away on either side of his upper row of teeth. They were not particularly uncomfortable to wear.“There’s your specs,” said Crook, handing him a spectacle case, “and there’s the collar. Now if you’ll put on the rest of the duds, we’ll have a look at you, sir.”Desmond went out and donned the vest and coat and overcoat, and, thus arrayed, returned to the Pullman, hat in hand.Crook called out to him as he entered“Not so springy in the step, sir, if you please. Remember you’re forty-three years of age with a Continental upbringing. You’ll have to walk like a German, toes well turned out and down on the heel every time. So, that’s better. Now, have a look at yourself!”He turned and touched a blind. A curtain rolled up with a click, disclosing a full length mirror immediately opposite Desmond.Desmond recoiled in astonishment. He could scarcely credit his own eyes. The glass must be bewitched, he thought for a moment, quite overwhelmed by the suddenness of the shock. For instead of the young face set on a slight athletic body that the glass was wont to show him, he saw a square, rather solid man in ugly, heavy clothes, with a brown silky beard and gold spectacles. The disguise was baffling in its completeness. The little wizard, who had effected this change and who now stood by, bashfully twisting his fingers about, had transformed youth into middle age. And the bewildering thing was that the success of the disguise did not lie so much in the external adjuncts, the false beard, the pencilled wrinkles, as in the hideous collar, the thick padded clothes, in short, in the general appearance.For the first time since his talk with the Chief at the United Service Club, Desmond felt his heart grow light within him. If such miracles were possible, then he could surmount the other difficulties as well.“Crook,” he said, “I think you’ve done wonders. What do you say, Matthews?”“I’ve seen a lot of Mr. Crook’s work in my day, sir,” answered the clerk, “but nothing better than this. It’s a masterpiece, Crook, that’s what it is.”“I’m fairly well satisfied,” the expert murmured modestly, “and I must say the Major carries it off very well. But how goes the enemy, Matthews?”“It’s half past two,” replied, the latter, “we should reach Cannon Street by three. She’s running well up to time, I think.”“We’ve got time for a bit of a rehearsal,” said Crook. “Just watch me, will you please, Major, and I’ll try and give you an impression of our friend. I’ve been studying him at Brixton for the past twelve days, day and night almost, you might say, and I think I can convey an idea of his manner and walk. The walk is a very important point. Now, here is Mr. Bellward meeting one of his friends. Mr. Matthews, you will be the friend!”Then followed one of the most extraordinary performances that Desmond had ever witnessed. By some trick of the actor’s art, the shriveled figure of the expert seemed to swell out and thicken, while his low, gentle voice deepened into a full, metallic baritone. Of accent in his speech there was none, but Desmond’s ear, trained to foreigners’ English, could detect a slight Continental intonation, a little roll of the “r’s,” an unfamiliar sound about those open “o’s” of the English tongue, which are so fatal a trap for foreigners speaking our language. As he watched Crook, Desmond glanced from time to time at the photograph of Bellward which he had picked up from the table. He had an intuition that Bellward behaved and spoke just as the man before him.Then, at Crook’s suggestion, Desmond assumed the role of Bellward. The expert interrupted him continually.“The hands, Major, the hands, you mustnotkeep them down at your sides. That is military! You must move them when you speak! So and so!”Or again:“You speak too fast. Too... too youthfully, if you understand me, sir. You are a man of middle age. Life has no further secrets for you. You are poised and getting a trifle ponderous. Now try again!”But the train was slackening speed. They were running between black masses of squalid houses. As the special thumped over the bridge across the river, Mr. Crook gathered up his paints and brushes and photographs and arranged them neatly in his black tin box.To Desmond he said:“I shall be coming along to give you some more lessons very soon, Major. I wish you could see Bellward for yourself: you are very apt at this game, and it would save us much time. But I fear that’s impossible.”Even before the special had drawn up alongside the platform at Cannon Street, Crook and Matthews swung themselves out and disappeared. When the train stopped, a young man in a bowler hat presented himself at the door of the Pullman.“The car is there, Mr. Bellward, sir!” he said, helping Desmond to alight. Desmond, preparing to assume his new role, was about to leave the carriage when a sudden thought struck him. What about his uniform strewn about the compartment where he had changed? He ran back. The compartment was empty. Not a trace remained of the remarkable scenes of their night journey.“This is for you,” said the young man, handing Desmond a note as they walked down the platform.Outside the station a motor-car with its noisy throbbing awoke the echoes of the darkened and empty courtyard. Desmond waited until he was being whirled over the smooth asphalt of the City streets before he opened the letter.He found a note and a small key inside the envelope.“On reaching the house to which you will be conveyed,” the note said, “you will remain indoors until further orders. You can devote your time to studying the papers you will find in the desk beside the bed. For the present you need not fear detectionas long as you do not leave the house.” Then followed a few rough jottings obviously for his guidance.“Housekeeper, Martha, half blind, stupid; odd man, John Hill, mostly invisible, no risk from either. You are confined to house with heavy chill.Do not go out until you get the word.”The last sentence was twice underlined.The night was now pitch-dark. Heavy clouds had come up and obscured the stars and a drizzle of rain was falling. The car went forward at a good pace and Desmond, after one or two ineffectual attempts to make out where they were going, was lulled by the steady motion into a deep sleep. He was dreaming fitfully of the tossing Channel as he had seen it but a few hours before when he came to his senses with a start. He felt a cold draught of air on his face and his feet were dead with cold.A figure stood at the open door of the car. It was the chauffeur.“Here we are, sir,” he said.Desmond stiffly descended to the ground. It was so dark that he could distinguish nothing, but he felt the grit of gravel under his feet and he heard the melancholy gurgle of running water. He took a step forward and groped his way into a little porch smelling horribly of mustiness and damp. As he did so, he heard a whirr behind him and the car began to glide off. Desmond shouted after the chauffeur. Now that he stood on the very threshold of his adventure, he wanted to cling desperately to this last link with his old self. But the chauffeur did not or would not hear, and presently the sound of the engine died away, leaving Desmond to the darkness, the sad splashing of distant water and his own thoughts.And then, for one brief moment, all his courage seemed to ooze out of him. If he had followed his instinct, he would have turned and fled into the night, away from that damp and silent house, away from the ceaseless splashing of waters, back to the warmth and lights of civilization. But his sense of humor, which is very often better than courage, came to his rescue.“I suppose I ought to be in the devil of a rage,” he said to himself, “being kept waiting like this outside my own house! Where the deuce is my housekeeper? By Gad, I’ll ring the place down!”The conceit amused him, and he advanced further into the musty porch hoping to find a bell. But as he did so his ear caught the distant sound of shuffling feet. The shuffle of feet drew nearer and presently a beam of light shone out from under the door. A quavering voice called out:“Here I am, Mr. Bellward, here I am, sir!”Then a bolt was drawn back, a key turned, and the door swung slowly back, revealing an old woman, swathed in a long shawl and holding high in her hand a lamp as she peered out into the darkness.“Good evening, Martha,” said Desmond, and stepped into the house.Save for Martha’s lamp, the lobby was in darkness, but light was streaming into the hall from the half open door of a room leading off it at the far end. While Martha, wheezing asthmatically, bolted the front door, Desmond went towards the room where the light was and walked in.It was a small sitting-room, lined with bookshelves, illuminated by an oil lamp which stood on a little table beside a chintz-covered settee which had been drawn up in front of the dying fire.On the settee Nur-el-Din was lying asleep.

It was a clear, cold night. A knife-edge icy wind blew from the north-east and kept the lanyards dismally flapping on the flag-mast over the customs house. The leave train lay in the station within a biscuit’s throw of the quayside and the black, blank Channel beyond, a long line of cheerfully illuminated windows that to those returning from leave seemed as the last link with home.

The Corporal of Military Police, who stood at the gangway examining the passes, stopped Desmond Okewood as the latter held out his pass into the rays of the man’s lantern.

“There was a message for you, sir,” said the Corporal. “The captain of the Staff boat would h-esteem it a favor, sir, if you would kindly go to his cabin immediately on h-arriving on board, sir!”

“Very good, Corporal!” answered the officer and passed up the gang plank, enviously regarded by the press of brass-hats and red-tabs who, for the most part, had a cramped berth below or cold quarters on deck to look forward to.

A seaman directed Desmond to the Captain’s cabin. It was built out just behind the bridge, a snug, cheery room with bright chintz curtains over the carefully screened portholes, a couple of comfortable benches with leather seats along the walls, a small bunk, and in the middle of the floor a table set out with a bottle of whiskey, a siphon and some glasses together with a box of cigars.

The Captain was sitting there chatting to the pilot, a short, enormously broad man with a magenta face and prodigious hands which were folded round a smoking glass of toddy.

“Pick ’em up? Rescue ’em?” the pilot ejaculated, as Desmond walked in, “I’d let ’em sink, every man Jack o’ them, the outrageous murderin’ scoundrels. I don’t like to hear you a-talking of such nonsense, Cap’en!”

On Desmond’s entrance the Captain broke off the conversation. He proved to be a trimly-built man of about fifty with a grizzled beard, and an air of quiet efficiency which is not uncommonly found in seamen. The pilot drained his glass and, scrambling to his feet, nodded to Desmond and stumped out into the cold night air.

“Jawin’ about the U boats!” said the Captain, with a jerk of his head towards the cabin door, “I don’t know what the feelings of your men in the trenches are towards Fritz, Major, but I tell you that no German will dare set foot in any coast port of the United Kingdom in my life-time or yours, either! Accommodation’s a bit narrow on board. I thought maybe you’d care to spend the night up here!”

“Any orders about me?” asked Desmond.

The Captain went a shade deeper mahogany in the face.

“Oh no,” he replied, with an elaborate assumption of innocence. “But won’t you mix yourself a drink? And try one of my cigars, a present from a skipper friend of mine who sailed into Tilbury from Manila last week.”

Desmond sat in the snug cabin, puffing a most excellent cigar and sipping his whiskey and soda while, amid much shouting of seamen and screaming of windlasses, the staff boat got clear. Presently they were gliding past long low moles and black, inhospitable lighthouses, threading their way through the dark shapes of war craft of all kinds into the open Channel. There was a good deal of swell, but the sea was calm, and the vessel soon steadied down to regular rise and fall.

They had been steaming for nearly an hour when, through the open door of the cabin, Desmond saw a seaman approach the captain on the bridge. He handed the skipper a folded paper.

“From the wireless operator, sir!” Desmond heard him say.

The skipper scanned it. Then the engine telegraph rang sharply, there was the sound of churning water, and the vessel slowed down. The next moment the Captain appeared at the door of the cabin.

“I’m afraid we’re going to lose you, Major,” he said pleasantly, “a destroyer is coming up to take you off. There was a wireless from the Admiral about you.”

“Where are they going to take me, do you know?” asked Desmond.

The Captain shook his head.

“I haven’t an idea. I’ve only got to hand you over!”

He grinned and added:

“Where’s your kit?”

“In the hold, I expect!” answered Desmond. “The porter at Victoria told me not to worry about it, and that I should find it on the other side. And, oh damn it!—I’ve got a hundred cigarettes in my kit, too! I bought them specially for the journey!”

“Well, take some of my cigars,” said the skipper hospitably, “for your traps’ll have to go to France this trip, Major. There’s no time to get ’em up now. I’ll pass the word to the Military Landing Officer over there about ’em, if you like. He’ll take care of ’em for you. Now will you come with me?”

Desmond scrambled into his coat and followed the Captain down the steps to the deck. A little distance away from the vessel, the long shape of a destroyer was dimly visible tossing to and fro in the heavy swell. A ladder had been let down over the side of the steamer, and at its foot a boat, manned by a number of heavily swathed and muffled forms, was pitching.

A few officers stood by the rail watching the scene with interest. The skipper adroitly piloted Desmond past them and fairly thrust him out on to the ladder.

Desmond took the hint and with a hasty “Good night” to the friendly captain, staggered down the swaying ladder and was helped into the boat. The boat shoved off, the bell of the engine telegraph on the steamer resounded sharply, and the vessel resumed her interrupted voyage whilst the rowing boat was headed towards the destroyer. On board the latter vessel an officer met Desmond at the rail and piloted him to the ward-room. Almost before they got there, the destroyer was under way.

The officer who had welcomed him proved to be the second in command, a joyous person who did the honors of the tiny ward-room with the aplomb of a Commander in a super-Dreadnought. He mixed Desmond a drink and immediately started to converse about life at the front without giving the other a chance of asking whither they were bound.

The suspense was not of long duration, however, for in about half an hour’s time, the destroyer slowed down and Desmond’s host vanished. When he reappeared, it was to summon Desmond on deck.

They lay aside a mole by some steps cut in the solid concrete. Here Desmond’s host took leave of him.

“There should be a car waiting for you up there,” he said.

There on top of the mole, exposed to the keen blast of the wind, a large limousine was standing. A chauffeur, who looked blue with cold, got down from his seat as Desmond emerged from the stairs and touched his cap.

“Major Okewood?” he asked.

“That’s my name!” said Desmond.

“If you’ll get in, sir, we’ll start at once!” the man replied.

Befogged and bewildered, Desmond entered the car, which cautiously proceeded along the breakwater, with glimpses of black water and an occasional dim light on either hand. They bumped over the railway-lines and rough cobblestones of a dockyard, glided through a slumbering town, and so gradually drew out into the open country where the car gathered speed and fairly raced along the white, winding road. Desmond had not the faintest idea of their whereabouts or ultimate destination. He was fairly embarked on the great adventure now, and he was philosophically content to let Fate have its way with him. He found himself wondering rather indolently what the future had in store.

The car slowed down and the chauffeur switched the headlights on. Their blinding glare revealed some white gate-posts at the entrance of a quiet country station. Desmond looked at his watch. It was half-past one. The car stopped at the entrance to the booking-office where a man in an overcoat and bowler was waiting.

“This way, Major, please,” said the man in the bowler, and led the way into the dark and silent station. At the platform a short train consisting of an engine, a Pullman car and a brakesman’s van stood, the engine under steam. By the glare from the furnace Desmond recognized his companion. It was Matthews, the Chief’s confidential clerk.

Matthews held open the door of the Pullman for Desmond and followed him into the carriage. A gruff voice in the night shouted:

“All right, Charley!” a light was waved to and fro, and the special pulled out of the echoing station into the darkness beyond.

In the corner of the Pullman a table was laid for supper. There was a cold chicken, a salad, and a bottle of claret. On another table was a large tin box and a mirror with a couple of electric lights before it. At this table was seated a small man with gray hair studying a large number of photographs.

“If you will have your supper, Major Okewood, sir,” said Matthews, “Mr. Crook here will get to work. We’ve not got too much time.”

The sea air had made Desmond ravenously hungry. He sat down promptly and proceeded to demolish the chicken and make havoc of the salad. Also he did full justice to the very excellent St. Estephe.

As he ate he studied Matthews, who was one of those undefinable Englishmen one meets in tubes and ’buses, who might be anything from a rate collector to a rat catcher. He had sandy hair plastered limply across his forehead, a small moustache, and a pair of watery blue eyes. Mr. Crook, who continued his study of his assortment of photographs without taking the slightest notice of Desmond, was a much more alert looking individual, with a shock of iron gray hair brushed back and a small pointed beard.

“Matthew’s,” said Desmond as he supped, “would it be indiscreet to ask where we are?”

“In Kent, Major,” replied Matthews.

“What station was that we started from?”

“Faversham.”

“And where are we going, might I inquire?”

“To Cannon Street, sir!”

“And from there?”

Mr. Matthews coughed discreetly.

“I can’t really say, sir, I’m sure! A car will meet you there and I can go home to bed.”

The ends sealed again! thought Desmond. What a man of caution, the Chief!

“And this gentleman here, Matthews?” asked Desmond, lighting one of the skipper’s cigars.

“That, sir, is Mr. Crook, who does any little jobs we require in the way of make-up. Our expert on resemblances, if I may put it that way, sir, for we really do very little in the way of disguises. Mr. Crook is an observer of what I may call people’s points, sir, their facial appearance, their little peculiarities of manner, of speech, of gait. Whenever there is any question of a disguise, Mr. Crook is called in to advise as to the possibilities of success. I believe I am correct in saying, Crook, that you have been engaged on the Major here for some time. Isn’t it so?”

Crook looked up a minute from his table.

“That’s right,” he said shortly, and resumed his occupation of examining the photographs.

“And what’s your opinion about this disguise of mine?” Desmond asked him.

“I can make a good job of you, Major,” said the expert, “and so I reported to the Chief. You’ll want to do your hair a bit different and let your beard grow, and then, if you pay attention to the lessons I shall give you, in a week or two, you’ll be this chap here,” and he tapped the photograph in his hand, “to the life.”

So saying he handed Desmond the photograph. It was the portrait of a man about forty years of age, of rather a pronounced Continental type, with a short brown beard, a straight, rather well-shaped nose and gold-rimmed spectacles. His hair was cuten brosse, and he was rather full about the throat and neck. Without a word, Desmond stretched out his hand and gathered up a sheaf of other photos, police photos of Mr. Basil Bellward, front face and profile seen from right and left, all these poses shown on the same picture, some snapshots and various camera studies. Desmond shook his head in despair. He was utterly unable to detect the slightest resemblance between himself and this rather commonplace looking type of business man.

“Now if you’d just step into the compartment at the end of the Pullman, Major,” said Crook, “you’ll find some civilian clothes laid out. Would you mind putting them on? You needn’t trouble about the collar and tie, or coat and waistcoat for the moment. Then we’ll get along with the work.”

The train rushed swaying on through the darkness. Desmond was back in the Pullman car in a few minutes arrayed in a pair of dark gray tweed trousers, a white shirt and black boots and socks. A cut-away coat and waistcoat of the same tweed stuff, a black bowler hat of rather an old-fashioned and staid pattern, and a black overcoat with a velvet collar, he left in the compartment where he changed.

He found that Crook had opened his tin box and set out a great array of grease paints, wigs, twists of tow of various colors, and a number of pots and phials of washes and unguents together with a whole battery of fine paint brushes. In his hand he held a pair of barber’s clippers and the tips of a comb and a pair of scissors protruded from his vest pocket.

Crook whisked a barber’s wrap round Desmond and proceeded, with clippers and scissors, to crop and trim his crisp black hair.

“Tst-tst” he clicked with his tongue. “I didn’t realize your hair was so dark, Major. It’ll want a dash of henna to lighten it.”

The man worked with incredible swiftness. His touch was light and sure, and Desmond, looking at his reflection in the glass, wondered to see what fine; delicate hands this odd little expert possessed. Matthews sat and smoked in silence and watched the operation, whilst the special ran on steadily Londonwards.

When the clipping was done, Crook smeared some stuff on a towel and wrapped it round Desmond’s head.

“That’ll brighten your hair up a lot, sir. Now for a crepe beard just to try the effect. We’ve got to deliver you at Cannon Street ready for the job, Mr. Matthews and me, but you won’t want to worry with this nasty messy beard once you get indoors. You can grow your own beard, and I’ll pop in and henna it a bit for you every now and then.”

There was the smart of spirit gum on Desmond’s cheeks and Crook gently applied a strip of tow to his face. He had taken the mirror away so that Desmond could no longer see the effect of the gradual metamorphosis.

“A mirror only confuses me,” said the expert, breathing hard as he delicately adjusted the false beard, “I’ve got this picture firm in my head, and I want to get it transferred to your face. Somehow a mirror puts me right off. It’s the reality I want.”

As he grew more absorbed in his work, he ceased to speak altogether. He finished the beard, trimmed the eyebrows, applied a dash of henna with a brush, leaning backwards continually to survey the effect. He sketched in a wrinkle or two round the eyes with a pencil, wiped them out, then put them in again. Then he fumbled in his tin box, and produced two thin slices of grey rubber.

“Sorry,” he said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to wear these inside your cheeks to give the effect of roundness. You’ve got an oval face and the other man has a round one. I can get the fullness of the throat by giving you a very low collar, rather open and a size too large for you.”

Desmond obediently slipped the two slices of rubber into his mouth and tucked them away on either side of his upper row of teeth. They were not particularly uncomfortable to wear.

“There’s your specs,” said Crook, handing him a spectacle case, “and there’s the collar. Now if you’ll put on the rest of the duds, we’ll have a look at you, sir.”

Desmond went out and donned the vest and coat and overcoat, and, thus arrayed, returned to the Pullman, hat in hand.

Crook called out to him as he entered

“Not so springy in the step, sir, if you please. Remember you’re forty-three years of age with a Continental upbringing. You’ll have to walk like a German, toes well turned out and down on the heel every time. So, that’s better. Now, have a look at yourself!”

He turned and touched a blind. A curtain rolled up with a click, disclosing a full length mirror immediately opposite Desmond.

Desmond recoiled in astonishment. He could scarcely credit his own eyes. The glass must be bewitched, he thought for a moment, quite overwhelmed by the suddenness of the shock. For instead of the young face set on a slight athletic body that the glass was wont to show him, he saw a square, rather solid man in ugly, heavy clothes, with a brown silky beard and gold spectacles. The disguise was baffling in its completeness. The little wizard, who had effected this change and who now stood by, bashfully twisting his fingers about, had transformed youth into middle age. And the bewildering thing was that the success of the disguise did not lie so much in the external adjuncts, the false beard, the pencilled wrinkles, as in the hideous collar, the thick padded clothes, in short, in the general appearance.

For the first time since his talk with the Chief at the United Service Club, Desmond felt his heart grow light within him. If such miracles were possible, then he could surmount the other difficulties as well.

“Crook,” he said, “I think you’ve done wonders. What do you say, Matthews?”

“I’ve seen a lot of Mr. Crook’s work in my day, sir,” answered the clerk, “but nothing better than this. It’s a masterpiece, Crook, that’s what it is.”

“I’m fairly well satisfied,” the expert murmured modestly, “and I must say the Major carries it off very well. But how goes the enemy, Matthews?”

“It’s half past two,” replied, the latter, “we should reach Cannon Street by three. She’s running well up to time, I think.”

“We’ve got time for a bit of a rehearsal,” said Crook. “Just watch me, will you please, Major, and I’ll try and give you an impression of our friend. I’ve been studying him at Brixton for the past twelve days, day and night almost, you might say, and I think I can convey an idea of his manner and walk. The walk is a very important point. Now, here is Mr. Bellward meeting one of his friends. Mr. Matthews, you will be the friend!”

Then followed one of the most extraordinary performances that Desmond had ever witnessed. By some trick of the actor’s art, the shriveled figure of the expert seemed to swell out and thicken, while his low, gentle voice deepened into a full, metallic baritone. Of accent in his speech there was none, but Desmond’s ear, trained to foreigners’ English, could detect a slight Continental intonation, a little roll of the “r’s,” an unfamiliar sound about those open “o’s” of the English tongue, which are so fatal a trap for foreigners speaking our language. As he watched Crook, Desmond glanced from time to time at the photograph of Bellward which he had picked up from the table. He had an intuition that Bellward behaved and spoke just as the man before him.

Then, at Crook’s suggestion, Desmond assumed the role of Bellward. The expert interrupted him continually.

“The hands, Major, the hands, you mustnotkeep them down at your sides. That is military! You must move them when you speak! So and so!”

Or again:

“You speak too fast. Too... too youthfully, if you understand me, sir. You are a man of middle age. Life has no further secrets for you. You are poised and getting a trifle ponderous. Now try again!”

But the train was slackening speed. They were running between black masses of squalid houses. As the special thumped over the bridge across the river, Mr. Crook gathered up his paints and brushes and photographs and arranged them neatly in his black tin box.

To Desmond he said:

“I shall be coming along to give you some more lessons very soon, Major. I wish you could see Bellward for yourself: you are very apt at this game, and it would save us much time. But I fear that’s impossible.”

Even before the special had drawn up alongside the platform at Cannon Street, Crook and Matthews swung themselves out and disappeared. When the train stopped, a young man in a bowler hat presented himself at the door of the Pullman.

“The car is there, Mr. Bellward, sir!” he said, helping Desmond to alight. Desmond, preparing to assume his new role, was about to leave the carriage when a sudden thought struck him. What about his uniform strewn about the compartment where he had changed? He ran back. The compartment was empty. Not a trace remained of the remarkable scenes of their night journey.

“This is for you,” said the young man, handing Desmond a note as they walked down the platform.

Outside the station a motor-car with its noisy throbbing awoke the echoes of the darkened and empty courtyard. Desmond waited until he was being whirled over the smooth asphalt of the City streets before he opened the letter.

He found a note and a small key inside the envelope.

“On reaching the house to which you will be conveyed,” the note said, “you will remain indoors until further orders. You can devote your time to studying the papers you will find in the desk beside the bed. For the present you need not fear detectionas long as you do not leave the house.” Then followed a few rough jottings obviously for his guidance.

“Housekeeper, Martha, half blind, stupid; odd man, John Hill, mostly invisible, no risk from either. You are confined to house with heavy chill.Do not go out until you get the word.”

The last sentence was twice underlined.

The night was now pitch-dark. Heavy clouds had come up and obscured the stars and a drizzle of rain was falling. The car went forward at a good pace and Desmond, after one or two ineffectual attempts to make out where they were going, was lulled by the steady motion into a deep sleep. He was dreaming fitfully of the tossing Channel as he had seen it but a few hours before when he came to his senses with a start. He felt a cold draught of air on his face and his feet were dead with cold.

A figure stood at the open door of the car. It was the chauffeur.

“Here we are, sir,” he said.

Desmond stiffly descended to the ground. It was so dark that he could distinguish nothing, but he felt the grit of gravel under his feet and he heard the melancholy gurgle of running water. He took a step forward and groped his way into a little porch smelling horribly of mustiness and damp. As he did so, he heard a whirr behind him and the car began to glide off. Desmond shouted after the chauffeur. Now that he stood on the very threshold of his adventure, he wanted to cling desperately to this last link with his old self. But the chauffeur did not or would not hear, and presently the sound of the engine died away, leaving Desmond to the darkness, the sad splashing of distant water and his own thoughts.

And then, for one brief moment, all his courage seemed to ooze out of him. If he had followed his instinct, he would have turned and fled into the night, away from that damp and silent house, away from the ceaseless splashing of waters, back to the warmth and lights of civilization. But his sense of humor, which is very often better than courage, came to his rescue.

“I suppose I ought to be in the devil of a rage,” he said to himself, “being kept waiting like this outside my own house! Where the deuce is my housekeeper? By Gad, I’ll ring the place down!”

The conceit amused him, and he advanced further into the musty porch hoping to find a bell. But as he did so his ear caught the distant sound of shuffling feet. The shuffle of feet drew nearer and presently a beam of light shone out from under the door. A quavering voice called out:

“Here I am, Mr. Bellward, here I am, sir!”

Then a bolt was drawn back, a key turned, and the door swung slowly back, revealing an old woman, swathed in a long shawl and holding high in her hand a lamp as she peered out into the darkness.

“Good evening, Martha,” said Desmond, and stepped into the house.

Save for Martha’s lamp, the lobby was in darkness, but light was streaming into the hall from the half open door of a room leading off it at the far end. While Martha, wheezing asthmatically, bolted the front door, Desmond went towards the room where the light was and walked in.

It was a small sitting-room, lined with bookshelves, illuminated by an oil lamp which stood on a little table beside a chintz-covered settee which had been drawn up in front of the dying fire.

On the settee Nur-el-Din was lying asleep.

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