"Well, go your own way," said Mr. Llewellyn John; "but I should like to know what it all means. Frankly I'm puzzled. We are cut off entirely from Auchinlech, and without John Dene the _Destroyer_ can't sail. We're losing valuable time. It's very unfortunate; it's a disaster, in fact. But," he burst out excitedly, "why on earth does Sage want to advertise our anxiety as to Dene's whereabouts? That's what puzzles me." "It puzzles me too, sir," said Colonel Walton quietly. "It's such a confession of weakness," continued Mr. Llewellyn John, "such a showing of our hand. What will people think when we offer ten thousand pounds for news of John Dene of Toronto?" "They'll probably think that he's an extremely valuable man," was the dry retort. "That's it exactly," said Mr. Llewellyn John, "and Berlin will congratulate itself upon a master-stroke." Colonel Walton felt inclined to suggest that was exactly what Malcolm Sage seemed most to desire; but he refrained. "Very well, Walton, carry on," said Mr. Llewellyn John; "but frankly I don't like it," he added half to himself. Colonel Walton left No. 110, Downing Street, and ten minutes later Malcolm Sage withdrew his resignation. Whilst Department Z. hummed and buzzed with energy, and men and women were coming and going continuously, Dorothy sat at the window of John Dene's room gazing out at a prospect of white enamelled bricks punctuated by windows. She had nothing to do. Everything seemed so different. John Dene's impulsive energy had vitalised all about him. Now she felt as if all her faculties had suddenly wilted. In her own mind she was convinced that he was ill. She could not blot from her mind the strangeness of his manner during the last few days. His sudden loss of memory proved that he was unwell. For a man to forget where the postage stamps are kept, or the position in the room of the letter files, was, in itself, a proof that something very strange had suddenly come over him, the more so in the case of one who was almost aggressively proud of his memory. Then there had been other little details. His movements did not seem the same, that jerkiness and sudden upward glance from his table had disappeared. It was as if he had been drugged. Dorothy wondered if that really were the explanation. Oh! but she was very miserable and horribly lonely. That night Dorothy and her mother sat up long after midnight talking of John Dene. To both had come the realisation that he stood to them in the light of an intimate friend. As she said "Good night," Mrs. West put her arm round Dorothy's shoulders, and in a shaky voice said: "I don't think God would let anything happen to a good man like Mr. Dene;" and Dorothy turned and left the room abruptly. CHAPTER XIV THE HUE AND CRY