They drank a brandy and soda each. Then the poet rose. He was conscious of various bruises but he was very happy. "Home and seclusion, I think, for a time, my friend," he said. "What a heavenly scrap!" * * * * * Late that evening, a very immaculately dressed young man of most superior appearance discovered the poet in an easy chair in his club, awaiting the midnight rush of journalists and actors. The young man presented a card. "You will find my name there, sir," he said, "and also the Service on behalf of which I pay you this visit." Cresswell scrutinised the card and sat up in his chair. "Have a drink?" he suggested. His visitor begged to be excused. "The Chief asked me to find you at the earliest possible moment," he announced, "to first of all express his thanks and the thanks of his department for your valuable services." "Had the Dutchman got the goods on him?" the poet asked eagerly. "He had indeed! He was carrying documents of high importance which were obviously destined for our enemies," the young man said. "Their contents are to a certain extent a secret, and I am to ask you to add to your services by allowing the matter to slip from your memory." "What's going to become of Mrs. Abrahams?" Cresswell enquired. "We received an indirect suggestion to-night from the Home Office," the young man replied, "that the lady in question should be cautioned. If it is any relief to you, let me assure you that my chief is not the sort of man to listen to such tosh. The lady will be interned, whatever her friends may attempt on her behalf. Two of the other people implicated, both in the censor's office, I regret to say, will be shot. You appear to have discovered a bureau which existed for the purpose of collecting and dispatching abroad, every week, various items of information likely to be of service to our enemies." "What'll the Dutchman get?" The young man hesitated. "I have already somewhat exceeded my latitude," he said gravely. "May I ask you to consider what I have said in confidence, to forget this little adventure, and never again in this life to worry about the Dutchman?" "I won't," the poet promised, with a chuckle. "By the by, what about Jack Lovejoy?" "There is a reference only to some promised information from a person whom we concluded to be that young man," was the reply. "He has been asked to leave the country within twenty-four hours." The young man took his leave and a few moments later Aaron Rodd appeared. He was wearing a pearl pin of wonderful quality, which the poet eyed curiously. "A little farewell present," the former explained, as he settled down, "from Miss Pamela Keane." _Chapter VIII_ _The Yellow Eye_