The girl had finished her typing. Her black head was bowed over her table. She was revising the long list of numbers. In a minute, Desmond told himself, he must make up his mind how to act. Now she had crossed the room: now she was giving the despatch and the copy to Clubfoot. Was Bewlay really dead? Or would he scream again? . . . Clubfoot was speaking: “. . . Which is it to be?” Desmond cleared his throat. All his senses were alert now. Those dreadful cries had stung him into action. He must gain time—time. By this the Chief and Francis, his brother, than whom there were no greater masters of their craft alive, would be busy with plans for his rescue. But they must have time to get on his track, unless he were too securely hidden away for them ever to find him . . . time, time . . . “Give me the despatch!” Desmond exclaimed suddenly. Silently, his suspicious eyes searching the other’s face, Clubfoot handed over the typewritten sheets. Desmond studied them. Then, with a shake of the head: “I can’t decipher it like this,” he said. “Have you any dictionaries here?” A glimmer of triumph shot into Grundt’s face. “What dictionary do you want?” he asked. “Peereboom’s English-Dutch Dictionary, the edition of 1898,” Desmond answered promptly. “I’ll send for it. It’ll be in your hands within the hour!” Clubfoot retorted and clapped him, almost affectionately, on the shoulder. Then they took Desmond back to his room. In the corridor on the first floor they passed the body of the courier, lying, still swathed in his bonds, lifeless, in a welter of blood. CHAPTER XII XENIA Dictionary codes are familiar in the Secret Service as furnishing a cipher which, without the key, defies detection. By asking for a dictionary at random, without reference to the cipher before him, Desmond had hoped to gain a respite of several hours; for he had reckoned that the little-known and out-of-date work which he had requested would not easily be forthcoming. Clubfoot’s glib promise that the book would be on hand within the hour dashed his hopes considerably, and he reëntered his prison seriously revolving in his head his chances of escape. Of chances, properly speaking, he had none. He had no knowledge of the geography of the house or its location; he had no arms; he had no accomplices. But the murder of Paul Bewlay had made him reckless. The sight of the body of that defenseless man, done to death in his bonds, filled his soul with rage. He must try to fight his way out. But how? He heard the door grate. Heinrich was there with a tray. “I’ve brought your dinner!” he said. His tone was infinitely more genial than before. Desmond stared at him blankly. “The mince you served me for lunch was cold,” he grumbled presently. “What have you got there? Poached eggs? Hmph! And how am I going to eat eggs without salt or pepper? Good God, if I’m going to work for you, can’t I be decently served?”