Clubfoot! The name stirred memories of high adventure in the Silent Corps. For two years the Chief’s small and devoted body of helpers, all picked men, had not known the Okewoods who soon after the war had retired from the Service. From time to time Desmond had felt the tug at the heartstrings. Now and then in his room at the War Office, in the stay-at-home billet which the Chief had secured for him, an odd restlessness seized him when an Intelligence report came his way and he read that “X, a reliable agent, reports from Helsingfors,” or, “A trustworthy observer forwards a statement from Angora . . .” But these were vague longings that a round of golf or a brisk game of tennis would dispel. The name of Clubfoot, however, was a definite challenge. He felt his breath come faster, his pulse quicken, as he glanced across the desk at the bold, strong face confronting him with an enigmatical smile playing about the firm, rather grim mouth. He knew then that the Chief had sent for him with a purpose and that, before the interview was at an end, the Service would claim him once more. “It was written,” the Chief resumed, “that you two should meet again. Your brilliant little experiment in practical criminology last night makes it perfectly clear to me, my dear Okewood, that you are the only man to tackle old Clubfoot in his reincarnation . . .” Desmond stared at the speaker. “You don’t mean . . .?” he began, and broke off. “By George!” he exclaimed, striking his open palm with his fist, “one of the men at the garage said something about seeing a big lame man go off with the young man who drove up in the stolen Lancia . . .” “Listen to me!” said the Chief. “Three days ago a certain Mr. Gustaf Törnedahl, a Swedish merchant . . .” “Törnedahl?” cried Desmond. “Wait!” ordered the Chief. “A certain Mr. Törnedahl, who rendered this country various services of a highly confidential nature in the war, came to see me. He was in a mortal funk. He solemnly declared that, since his arrival in London about ten days before, two separate attempts had been made on his life. A man had tried to knife him down at the Docks, and, a few days later, so he assured me, a fellow in a car had deliberately sought to run him down in Jermyn Street. “He asked for police protection and, because I had reasons for taking his story even more seriously than he did himself, I gave it to him. At seven o’clock yesterday evening the plain-clothes man detailed to shadow him was found drugged, lying halfway down the steps of the Down Street Tube Station, which, as you know, is one of the loneliest places in London. And shortly after midnight the Yard rings up to tell me that a man, believed to be Törnedahl, with his beard shaved off and his hair dyed black, had been found poisoned in a car in Pump Yard, Saint James’s.” “It _was_ the little lady’s friend, then?” said Desmond.