THE WHITE PAPER PACKAGE
A taxi was waiting in Pall Mall outside the club and Desmond hailed it, though secretly wondering what the driver would think of taking him out to Seven Kings. Rather to his surprise, the man was quite affable, took the address of the house where Barbara was staying with her friends and bade Desmond "hop in."Presently, for the second time that day, he was heading for the Mils End Road.
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.
Desmond consoled himself finally by saying that the would be able too get some light on his mission from Barbara Mackwayte, whom he judged to be in the Chief's confidence. But here he was doomed to disappointment. Barbara could tell him practically ;nothing save what he already knew, that they were to work together in this affair. Like him, she was waiting for her instructions.
Barbara received him in a neat little suburban drawing-room in the house of her friends, who lived a few streets away from the Mackwaytes. She was wearing a plainly-made black crepe de chine dress which served to accentuate the extreme pallor of her face, the only outward indication of the great shock she had sustained.
She was perfectly calm and collected, otherwise, and she stopped Desmond who would have murmured some phrases of condolence.
"Ah, no, please," she said, "I don't think I can speak about it yet."She pulled a chair over for him arid began to talk about the Chief.
"There's not the least need for you to worry," she said with a little woeful smile, like a sun-ray piercing a rain-cloud, "if the Chief says 'Go back to France and wait for instructions,' you may be sure that everything is arranged, and you will receive your orders in due course. So shall I. That's the Chief all over.
Until you know him, you think he loves mystery for mystery's sake. It isn't that at all. He just doesn't trust us. He trusts nobody!""But that hardly semis fair to us..." began Desmond.
"It's merely a precaution," replied Barbara, "the Chief takes no risks. I've not the least doubt that he has decided to tell you nothing whatsoever about your part until you are firmly settled in your new role. I'm perfectly certain that every detail of your part has already been worked out.""Oh, that's not possible," said Desmond. "Why, he didn't know until an hour ago that I was going to take on this job."Barbara laughed.
"The Chief has taught me a lot about judging men by their looks,"she said: "Personally, if I'd been in the Chief's places I should have gone ahead without consulting you, too."The girl spoke with such directness that there was not the least suggestion of a compliment in her remark, but Desmond blushed to the roots of his hair. Barbara noticed it and added hastily:
"I'm not trying to pay you a compliment: I'm just judging by your type. I believe I can always tell the man that will take on any job, however dangerous, and carry it through to the end."Desmond blushed more furiously than ever.
He made haste to divert the conversation into a safer channel.
"Well," he said slowly, "seeing that you and I were intended to work together, it seems to me to be a most extraordinary coincidence our meeting like that last night...""It was more than a coincidence," said Barbara, shaking her dark brown head. "Forty-eight hours ago I'd never heard of you, then the Chief gave me a telegram to send to your Divisional General summoning you home, after that he told me that we were to work together, and a few hours later I run into you in Nur-el-Din's dressing-room..."She broke off suddenly, her gray eyes big with fear. She darted across the room to an ormolu table as which her handbag was lying. With astonishment, Desmond watched her unceremoniously spill out the contents on to the table and rake hastily amongst the collection of articles which a pretty girl carries round in her bag.
Presently she raised herself erect and turning, faced the officer. She was trembling as though with cold and when she spoke, her voice was low and husky.
"Gone!" she whispered.
"Have you lost anything" Desmond asked anxiously.
"How could I have forgotten it?" she went on as though he had not spoken, "how could I have forgotten it? Nearly twelve hours wasted, and it explains everything. What will the Chief think of me!"Slowly she sank down on the sofa where she had been sitting, then, without any warning, dropped her head into her hands and burst into tears.
Desmond went over to her.
