As for Clubfoot, the evening traffic of Saint James’s swallowed up him and his companions, and the unremitting vigilance of the Secret Service, assisted by Scotland Yard, threw no light on their whereabouts. But, two days after the encounter in his flat, Desmond Okewood found in his mail a postcard, unsigned, with this epigrammatic message: _A sense of humour is a dangerous thing!_ CHAPTER VII THE UNSEEN MENACE It was about the time of the adventure of the top flat which I am going to narrate that I became aware of a remarkable change in my friend, Desmond Okewood. We were in the habit of meeting once or twice a week either for lunch or for a game of squash at the Bath Club. Now, Desmond Okewood, as his Christian name suggests, is, on the distaff side, Irish, and from his mother’s race he has inherited not only the intuition and reckless courage which have carried him so far in his career, but also that sublime indifference to anything like “nerves” that is one of the outstanding characteristics of the Irish. It was, therefore, with considerable surprise that, about this time, I became aware that my old friend was looking decidedly under par. His face had a drawn look that I did not like, and his eyes were haggard. I should probably have set it down to a succession of late nights had not old Erasmus Wilkes, the psychoanalyst, who was lunching at our table at the Club one morning, drawn me aside in the smoke-room afterwards and put the matter in an entirely different light. “You’re a friend of Desmond Okewood’s, aren’t you?” he asked me, and went on: “Then get him to tell you what’s on his mind. I’m not pryin’, young fellow, but I have some experience of these cases. If your pal doesn’t confide in some one . . .” He shrugged his shoulders and was about to turn away when I caught him by the sleeve. “We’re old friends, Desmond and I,” I said; “but there are some confidences one has to wait for. And Okewood’s a reserved beggar. It might help things, Doctor, if you’d give me a hint as to what is the matter, with him. He’ll never say a word unless I give him a lead.” Old Wilkes looked at me thoughtfully. “It’s fear,” he said. I burst out laughing. “Rot!” I exclaimed. “You’ve made a bloomer there, Doctor. Fear! Why, Desmond Okewood doesn’t know the meaning of the word!” Wilkes shook his head dubiously. “He looks like a man who goes in fear of his life,” he answered gravely. “He’s got the wind up about something. You ask him and you’ll see that I’m right!” “I’ll ask him like a shot,” I retorted, “but I bet you’re wrong!” And, in due course, I did ask Desmond Okewood. But he, as I expected, laughed my question off and protested that he had never felt better in his life. But old Wilkes was right, and it was Francis Okewood, as he afterwards told me, in whom Desmond ultimately confided.