"If that chap hadn't such a dandy set of grandmothers and first cousins, he'd be picking up cigarette-stubs instead of wasting his time telling me what I knew a year ago." "But he's only carrying out Sir Lyster's instructions," suggested Dorothy. "There's something in that," he admitted grudgingly, "but if they're going to be always running around warning me of danger I know all about----" He broke off. "Why," he continued a moment later, "I was shot at on the steamer, nearly hustled into the docks at Liverpool, set on by toughs in Manchester and followed around as if I was a bell-mule. I tell you it gets my goat. This country wants gingering-up." John Dene continued his pacing of the room. "Couldn't you wear a red beard and blue glasses and----" "What's that?" John Dene span round and fixed his eyes on the girl. "I mean disguise yourself," said Dorothy, dropping her eyes beneath his gaze. "Why?" The interrogation was rapped out in such a tone as to cause the girl to shrink back slightly. "They wouldn't know and then it wouldn't----" she hesitated. "Wouldn't what?" he demanded. "Get your goat," said Dorothy after a moment's hesitation. He continued to gaze intently at Dorothy, who was absorbed in a blank page of her note-book. "Here, take this down;" and he proceeded to dictate. "MY DEAR MR. BLAIR,-- "I am in receipt of yours of to-day's date. Will you tell Sir Lyster that I have bought a machine-gun, a blue beard, false eyebrows, and Miss West and I are going to do bayonet drill every morning with a pillow. "With kind regards, "Yours sincerely." For a few moments Dorothy sat regarding her book with knitted brows. "I don't think I should send that, if I were you, Mr. Dene," she said at length. "Why not?" he demanded, unaccustomed to having his orders questioned. "It sounds rather flippant, doesn't it?" John Dene smiled grimly, and as he made no further comment, Dorothy struck out the letter from her note-book. All through the morning John Dene threw off letters. The way in which he did his dictating reminded Dorothy of a retriever shaking the water from its coat after a swim. He hurled short, sharp sentences at her, as if anxious to be rid of them. Sometimes he would sit hunched up at his table, at others he would spring up and proceed feverishly to pace about the room. As she filled page after page of her note-book, Dorothy wondered when she would have an opportunity of transcribing her notes. Hour after hour John Dene dictated, in short bursts, interspersed with varying pauses, during which he seemed to be deep in thought. Once Sir Bridgman looked in, and Dorothy had a space in which to breathe; but with the departure of the First Sea Lord the torrent jerked forth afresh.