The blood slowly mounted in the other’s swarthy face. “A mere miscalculation, my friend! It was a trifling matter, anyhow, and I have never been able to interest myself in bagatelles. But this commission of yours . . .” He glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “Do you realize the task you’ve set me? Nein, nicht wahr? Would it surprise you to learn that within the past week the Foreign Office has changed its codes? While the new ones are being revised they are employing, for Most Secret despatches, code 3A of the Secret Service. You didn’t know that, did you? Come closer! Hitherto, the working of code 3A has been known to three persons only—to the Chief of the British Secret Service, to his confidential ciphering clerk, and”—he dropped his voice to a whisper—“to Major Desmond Okewood! . . .” “Ach nein!” exclaimed the Russian admiringly, cracking his knuckles. “With that draft treaty in our hands . . .” “_P-sst!_” warned Grundt, pointing at the door. A broad-shouldered man with a heavy dark moustache stood on the threshold of the room. “What is it, Max?” asked Grundt. “The Englishman is coming round, Herr Doktor!” Clubfoot looked at his watch. “Midnight!” he said. “You did your work thoroughly, Max!” “One does what one can, Herr Doktor!” “You and Heinrich will take it in turns to guard the Englishman throughout the night. You can give him food. But watch him, he’s slippery. If he escapes . . .” He broke off and glared at the other. “Go now and remember what I say!” Grundt turned to the Russian. “The Constantinople courier is expected to leave Calais for Dover by the afternoon boat. Everything is prepared. If all goes well he should be here soon after dark. Sleep well, Mandelstamm! The draft treaty will be in your hands by to-night!” Limping heavily with his huge misshapen foot, he hobbled briskly from the room. Desmond Okewood was emerging painfully from a long, incoherent dream. He found his eyes fixed on an electric bulb caged in steel bars, and set in the ceiling high above his head. As he gazed, the light seemed to come and go, to appear and vanish again . . . And then, with a jerk, he was fully conscious. With a pang the memory of the night came rushing back. The shame of his position almost overwhelmed him. To think that he, Desmond Okewood, had been deceived by the common crooks’ trick of dressing up confederates as detectives! He looked about him. He was lying on a couch in a bare and lofty room. Heavy oaken shutters, secured with bars of iron solidly padlocked, excluded every vestige of daylight. He had no idea where he was or what the time of day might be. When he looked for his watch, he found that his pockets had been emptied.