Francis Okewood turned his eyes to the French window, which, as he knew, opened on the croquet lawn at the back. It was now concealed by a close-fitting steel shutter that reached to the floor. He raised his eyebrows and looked at his brother as though about to speak. But there was close communion between these two. In all the years they had spent together in the Secret Service their one invariable rule was that if no explanation were vouchsafed, none was asked for. So Francis held his peace. “You must be starved,” said Desmond. “Sit down and have some supper. You’ve got a drink? Good. There’s a hot-pot here . . .” and he struck an electric plug in the wall, connected with a chafing-dish on the table. They ate in silence. The sympathy between the two brothers was not of the kind that requires expression in words. When they had done, Desmond pushed a box of cigars over to Francis and made up the fire. Then only Francis spoke. “And Clubfoot?” he said. Desmond, his feet stretched out on the fender, appeared to study the end of his cigar. Scrutinizing his features between his half-closed eyes, Francis noticed for the first time how worn his brother looked. The lines on his face and an air of restlessness, most unusual in him, were unfailing symptoms of prolonged strain. “Vanished into the Ewigkeit. Since the affair of the Russian ikon he has not been seen. The Chief thinks he has left the country. In fact, two days ago the old man went off to Holland on a clue . . .” “Went in person, eh? It must be a good one . . .” Desmond shook his head wearily. “Clubfoot’s still here, I think,” he said. “He’s lying low, that’s all. Waiting . . .” “For what?” “To get you, me, the Chief . . .” He shrugged his shoulders, drew on his cigar. “He’ll never quit while breath is in him, Francis. We beat him in Germany, brought him to the ground, the man of might and mystery, as they used to call him. When he reappeared so mysteriously in the Pacific, I spoilt his little game, and since he started this campaign of vengeance against us, we have pretty well held our own. But though we have the honours he means to win the rubber. Let him try . . .” He sprang to his feet. “It’s this cursed uncertainty that . . . that wears one down.” “Sit down, Des.,” said Francis gently. “I’m going to break the rules and ask you a question. Why did you bring us up from Southampton to-night like an old woman driving a governess cart? That six-cylinder of yours used to do better than twenty . . .!” Desmond frowned moodily. “I’m . . . I’m ashamed of myself,” he replied. “I’m windy, Francis—have been ever since they put a steel cable across the sunken road outside the gate here.” “Ah!” said Francis.