“Come closer!” said the girl. “Leave me here and drive to the clock outside Victoria Station at the entrance to the Vauxhall Bridge Road. Wait for me there. I mustn’t be seen leaving with you. The police watch the Hexagon!” The crucial moment had arrived. Desmond glanced quickly round the room. There was no sign of Francis or any of the Chief’s men. Well, his orders were to go through with the adventure. He paid the bill and left the girl at her table. Half an hour later, as he waited in front of the clock-tower at Victoria, a taxi drew up and a white hand tapped softly on the glass. The girl stopped the cab in front of one of those tall, gloomy houses that face the river in Grosvenor Road. Behind them, over an arch of lights, the trams thumped across Vauxhall Bridge; before them, beyond a wilderness of warehouses and wharves, the glow of South London shone luridly in the night sky. The house was dark and, save for the taxi quietly chugging at the door, the street was deserted. The girl jumped out first and, a latchkey in her hand, was already at the front door as Desmond alighted. For an instant he hesitated. What had happened to Francis and the others? Had the Chief failed him? Should he go on? His orders left him no choice. He had to play his part and leave the rest to the Chief. He felt in his jacket pocket for the reassuring chill of his automatic as he turned to pay the cab. “How much?” he asked the driver, an apple-cheeked greybeard. “Something’s gone wrong, Des.,” replied the man in a low voice, the voice of Francis Okewood. “The Chief’s people were to have followed us. Back out of this while you can!” “Psst!” From the top of the steps the girl was signalling to Desmond to make haste. “Have you change for a ten-shilling note?” Desmond said aloud to his brother, and added in an undertone: “I’m going to see it through. But get help quickly!” And with that he followed the girl into the house. They crossed the hall, a dingy place in which a gas-jet in a stained-glass lamp burned dimly. The girl stopped at a door at the end and, producing another key, unlocked it. They entered another lobby, very spick and span with its white paint and red Wilton pile carpet and brilliantly lighted. The murmur of voices came from swing-doors that led off it and the air was heavy with the fragrant aroma of cigars. At the end of the lobby, with their backs to the entrance door, a man and a girl stood. The man had his arms about the woman and his face was buried in the aureole of her golden hair. Desmond heard a sharp exclamation from Madeleine. “Paul!” she cried sharply. The couple sprang apart. Like a fury Madeleine turned on the woman. “What are you doing with my husband?” she demanded, and advanced menacingly towards her, her eyes blazing with anger and her thin hands shaking. “He’s mine, you . . . you painted slut!”