It was satisfactory to know, at any rate, Desmond reflected, that, so far as his experienced eye could detect, he had not been shadowed since leaving London. That he could set his mind similarly at rest about the man he was to meet! In the square outside the Brussels terminus the red Minerva car was waiting, and its driver, a button-nosed cockney with a surprising bilingual gift, showed his recognition of the password by the cheeriest of smiles. Desmond drove to the Flora at once, though it was only four o’clock. To his great satisfaction, for he wished to make a reconnaissance, he found that a matinée was in progress. He was not in the theatre for more than twenty minutes, and he spent the remainder of the afternoon on the field of Waterloo. Visits to La Haye Sainte and Hougomont and the attempt to snatch from their rather mournful atmosphere something of that mighty clash of arms effectively took his thoughts off the work before him. In reality, however, he was looking forward with the keenest relish to the surprises of the evening. He dined well but wisely at the “Filet de Bœuf,” and the half-pint of champagne, which was his modest allowance, seemed to quicken in him that lurking delight in adventure which had first drawn him towards the Secret Service. The evening performance at the Flora was billed to begin at nine o’clock, but when towards that hour, the ouvreuse showed Desmond into Box A, the house was not half full. Comfortable-looking bourgeoisie with their wives and often their children, mugs of beer on the ledge before them, formed the bulk of the audience, and Desmond, whose thoughts were with the auditorium rather than the stage, found some amusement in observing them. The performance had been proceeding for about half an hour and a troupe of comic acrobats were giving their turn when behind him he heard the door of the box open. He felt a thrill—the Unknown had arrived. He heard the wheezy voice of the ouvreuse: “Voici, Madame! Merci, Madame!” the door swung to with a click and, as he turned, Desmond found himself facing a girl. She was in evening dress, which, after the fashion of women at theatres on the Continent, she was wearing with a large black hat. Petite and dainty, from the nape of her neck almost to her feet she was swathed in a long Spanish shawl, white, on which huge crimson flowers were embroidered, with a deep silken fringe. “Madame, je regrette . . .” Desmond stood up. The girl’s arrival was most untimely. At any moment now the messenger might appear. Seemingly, she had mistaken the box. Yet the grim old ouvreuse had let her in. She was a pretty girl, about twenty-five, he judged, and her dark eyes, with their curling lashes, the smooth curve of her cheek, were admirable. The band was playing an interminable quick-step, to which the tumblers performed their tricks and contortions. The girl did not advance into the box, but remained in the half-light at the back.