“I don’t suppose Decies sees any earthly reason why _I_ shouldn’t,” said Jack. “But I haven’t been invited.” “You are always quarrelling with Gabriel,” Nanette retorted, fixing a cigarette in her holder. “Please, Major, would you give me a light?” As she stooped over the match that he struck for her, I could see her eyes--looking at every wave in his hair, seeking out the hint of powder at his temples, studying his long, sensitive fingers. He threw the match away, and: “You are such a restless little girl,” he said. “Why not spend a few peaceful hours in the garden, reading? Let me lend you a book.” Coming from any other source, this suggestion would have provoked a scathing rejoinder, but: “Thank you,” said Nanette simply, “I will.” She sat for that entire afternoon in a secluded corner of the garden, a comfortable, empty chair drawn up beside her own, reading a Russian novel--and waiting for O’Shea to join her. But he didn’t. That evening the comedy became drama. I was to learn in a few short hours how Nanette’s alluring beauty had averted tragedy from a royal house. And this was how it developed: A rather special dance had been arranged--I forget why; and O’Shea, quite the best-dressed man in the hotel, was last to go to his room and first down. He could get into black quicker than anyone I have ever met. You may know Reid’s green and yellow jazz cocktail bar? Well, as I looked in, having changed, there was O’Shea on a tall stool studying a dry Martini through his monocle. The way his bow was tied excited my envy; it was a poem in white piqué. We had the bar to ourselves, and presently: “How long do you expect to stay in Madeira?” I asked. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled--that rare and revealing smile. “In the strictest confidence, Decies,” he replied--and suddenly his gray eyes grew steely; he was smiling no longer--“until I have in my possession a certain small black dispatch-box.” “What!” I exclaimed. “It contains,” he went on, “some unfortunate correspondence compromising a royal personage; and if it ever reaches the Communist base in London, I hesitate to imagine the consequences.” “Good heavens!” said I, and formed my lips to convey an unspoken name. O’Shea nodded. “Exactly,” he replied. “That was what took me to the Argentine; but the Reds’ man--a dangerous and clever agent--doubled on me in Buenos Aires, and so you met me on my way back to Europe.” “Then you have it!” I cried. “No, damn it! I haven’t!” said he; “or would I be sitting on this stool? It’s getting desperate, Decies! There’s a British destroyer standing off Funchal waiting my radio that I’m coming on board!” I said nothing for a few moments. Then I thanked him for his confidence. “I confide in you with a definite purpose,” he replied. “I claim to be a judge of men, and I judge you to be one who would stand by in a rough house. I may need help, after all. If I do, the facts being as we know them, can I call on you?”