“That bus of mine will touch sixty when I open her out. By the mercy of God on this particular evening, a black night like this with no moon, I had slowed down to tighten up the wind-screen. The glass suddenly shattered, but I had time to duck. There was a steel rope spanned at the height of my head from hedge to hedge . . .” “I see. Any clue as to who put it there?” “Not a trace. The Chief was wild when I told him. But it gave me the jumps. I stopped Marjorie driving her two-seater and sent her off with the boy to her father’s. She didn’t want to go, poor girl, but, by George, I couldn’t stand the strain of looking after her as well as myself. And I know that if this doesn’t finish quickly, she’ll come back. You know what a loyal pal she is!” Francis nodded. “And that contraption of yours at the window?” Desmond heaved himself out of his chair. “Come here. I want to show you something.” He led the way across to the sideboard which stood against the wall opposite the shuttered window. “Six nights ago,” he said, “I was mixing myself a drink here just as you did to-night. Suddenly there was a shiver of glass from the window behind me, and something struck the woodwork not an inch from my head. After that I had steel shutters fitted to all the windows. Look! You can see the slug!” Projecting from the polished oak of the Jacobean buffet was a grey, irregular mass of metal. “Air-gun, eh?” commented Francis. “And a devilish heavy one, too, Des.!” He clapped his brother affectionately on the shoulder. “Well,” he remarked, “there are two of us now. I shall have to try what trailing my coat-tails in front of old Clubfoot will do . . .” “The only consoling thing about it,” said his brother, “is that it shows that old Clubfoot is afraid to come out in the open.” Francis rubbed the bridge of his nose meditatively. “I wonder! He may be planning something fresh and wants to get you out of the way. Has any attempt been made on the Chief?” “No!” Francis Okewood shook his head. “Bad, bad! Clubfoot has got him out of the country, Des., and he’ll strike at once!” They had not long to wait. CHAPTER VIII THE TOP FLAT At eight o’clock, not many hours after they had gone to bed, Desmond appeared in his brother’s room. “You’ve got to get dressed at once,” he announced. “We’re off to London!” “Oh, I say!” protested Francis, rubbing sleepy eyes. “One of the confidential typists at the Air Ministry has been murdered . . .” “But what . . . why . . .?” “I know nothing about it except that Alec Bannington, the Chief of the Air Staff, has been on to me on the telephone in the most fearful state. I promised to go up and see him at once. You’re coming, too. Don’t stop to bathe or shave, but come!”