“Major Okewood,” Vera cried out suddenly, “won’t you please explain to these men who I am? They want to handcuff me!” Desmond walked stiffly, for his legs were yet numb from his bonds, to the corner where, between two plain-clothes men, the girl was struggling. “Vera Sokoloff,” he said, looking sternly at her, “have you forgotten me?” Slowly the colour drained out of her cheeks, leaving only a little grotesque dab of rouge on either side. Valiantly she sought to meet his eyes. “What . . . what do you mean?” she faltered. “That is not my name . . .” “It was your name in 1919 when I knew you as a spy in Helsingfors,” Desmond retorted. “Fortunately my disguise was a good one or you would not have walked so easily into the trap I laid for you. My brother and his men have followed us every step of the way to-night. I could not expect you to know that I sent that notice to the _Daily Telegram_ myself . . .” “You sent it?” cried the girl. “Certainly, in the hope that Clubfoot would use you to decoy me to him as you lured poor Törnedahl into the trap!” “It’s not true!” the girl flashed out. “. . . But,” Desmond continued unperturbed, “I confess I feel rather mortified that you should have thought me so insanely indiscreet as to take a stranger like yourself into my confidence!” “This is an abominable outrage!” stormed the girl. “You’re mad, I think, with your talk of . . . of spies. I’m English . . . I have powerful friends . . . I . . .” Desmond held up his hand. “You forget,” he said, “that the telephonist at your club is a sharp little cockney. He was much intrigued to hear two days ago a telephone conversation between Miss Vera Slade and a certain post-office call-box in West Kensington beginning and ending with a number. ‘A message for Number One from Twenty Three,’ you said, and you went on to say that Törnedahl was lunching with you at one o’clock and that Number One should come quickly. The car, you added, was round at the back of the club . . .” He stopped and looked at her. “Vera, my dear,” he said, “you were more prudent than that at Helsingfors. You’re losing your grip! The English are not so stupid as they look!” With a convulsive shudder she covered her face with her hands and fell a-sobbing. “They threatened me,” she wailed in German. “I could not help myself, Herr Major!” The door burst open. Manderton appeared, hot and angry. “Got clean away!” he cried, “and him with a game leg! Damn it, he’s a deep one!” And he plumped into a chair. “Francis, old son,” remarked Desmond to his brother, “do you know what?” “I’ll buy it, Des.!” grinned Francis. “The brothers Okewood,” Desmond announced gravely, “are back on the job!” CHAPTER IV THE STRANGE EXPERIENCE OF MISS PATRICIA MAXWELL