“By the morning train from Victoria to-morrow. You will be in Brussels by four in the afternoon. A red Minerva car will meet you at the station and will be at your disposal for the whole of your stay. Just say to the driver ‘Albany’ and he will obey your orders. He will take you to the theatre and afterwards drive you out to the aerodrome to the machine that we have ordered for you. I honestly believe that nothing can go wrong, for the details I have given to you were sent sealed by air to Bliss in Berlin, and I have word that Bliss has received them. Our plan is, therefore, known only to myself, Bliss, and you . . .” “And the messenger . . .” Desmond put in. “Quite so. But you can trust Bliss to have picked a reliable person. He is, without exception, the most suspicious-minded cove I’ve ever come across . . . Hallo, what’s this?” A maid came hurrying up the garden path. “The gentleman is wanted on the telephone, please, sir,” she said to Desmond. They went into the house, where Desmond, discreetly, left the Chief at the telephone in the study. He returned to find the Chief staring moodily out of the window in an attitude of abstraction most unusual for him. On the sound of Desmond’s entrance he turned round. “Bliss was found dead in his hotel in Berlin with his throat cut this morning,” he said. “A remarkable man, your friend Clubfoot!” he added. Desmond whistled. Then, with a shade of anxiety in his voice, he added: “I hope you’ll be cautious for a bit, sir!” The Chief laughed dryly. “The warning applies to you with stronger force, young fellow,” he retorted. “Bliss’s messenger left Berlin for Brussels last night _with the packet_, as the message puts it. If only he isn’t followed! . . .” “If only he isn’t followed! . . .” The Chief’s phrase accompanied Desmond across the North Sea. The wheels of the Pullman hammered it out as the boat train bore him swiftly to the Channel shores, and it resounded in the rhythmic thudding of the waves against the sides of the Ostend packet. He had a mental picture of the unknown messenger being whirled across Germany, even as he was speeding over land and sea, towards that enigmatical point of contact, Box A, at the Flora Theatre in Brussels. “If only he isn’t followed! . . .” The phrase recurred to Desmond as the Brussels train pulled out of Ostend’s shabby station. Had they really eluded the long grasp of the man of might and mystery? If not, at what stage would he intervene? Would he interpose his massy bulk between the two emissaries speeding towards one another to meet? Or would he let contact be established and, once made, break it? . . .