He had asked her to dine with him to discuss the latest developments in the mystery of the purple cabriolet. But, as usually happens, it was not until the coffee came that the matter actually arose. Then it was Vera who brought it up. “Do you know,” she said, “when I told you yesterday I would dine with you, I’d no idea what a celebrity was to entertain me?” Desmond, who was lighting his cigar, raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps you haven’t seen yesterday’s _Daily Telegram_?” she said. Desmond made a wry face. “I’ve heard enough about it, God knows,” he remarked. “But I haven’t actually seen the paragraph.” “I have it here,” said Vera, and produced a cutting from her gold and platinum bag. “‘Sensational developments are expected,’” she read out, “‘in the case of the mysterious stranger who poisoned himself in a Lancia car at Pump Yard, Saint James’s. From the circumstance that Major Desmond Okewood, one of the most successful agents of the British Intelligence in the war, has been put in charge of the investigation, it is surmised that the mystery has a political as well as a criminal aspect.’” She shook her head prettily at him. “It’s lucky you didn’t deign to take _me_ into your confidence,” she said, “or you would have certainly declared that a woman had given you away!” “I’m blessed if I know where the devil this infernal rag got hold of the news,” Desmond remarked forlornly. “I haven’t breathed a word to a soul. As a matter of fact, I’m going out to the country this evening to talk things over with my brother Francis . . . I want him to help me in the inquiry. That’s why I asked you if you’d mind dining at seven. My boss carpeted me over this infernal par and properly washed my head. Apparently the Home Office had been on to him. Look at this, issued to yesterday’s evening papers!” He took out of his pocket a sheet of coarse greenish paper with a printed heading “Press Association.” He handed it to Vera. It was marked “Private and confidential,” and ran as follows: Notice to Editors The Press Association is asked by the Home Office to make a special request to the newspapers to make no further reference to Major Desmond Okewood’s inquiry into the Pump Yard case. “But how thrilling!” the girl exclaimed. “Then what the _Daily Telegram_ says is right. It _is_ a political crime, then? Tell me, has the dead man been identified?” Through a cloud of blue smoke Desmond smiled at her. “Once bitten, twice shy!” he said. “I’m afraid I can’t say anything about it, Miss Slade!” The girl made a little grimace. “You needn’t be discreet with _me_, Major Okewood,” she said softly. She raised her dark almond-shaped eyes and let them rest for a moment on his face. “Won’t you trust me? Won’t you let me help you?” Desmond looked at her doubtfully. “It’s very difficult,” he remarked, pulling on his cigar. “How were you going to your brother’s to-night?” she asked.