We were just about to turn into that steep and narrow street that leads to the square, when: “Hi! hi! Hullo there!” we were hailed. We turned. Bumping along in a sledge behind two sweating patient oxen, was Jack. “Hullo, Jack,” said Nanette. “Mr. Decies has to see the consul and I’m going shopping. Want to come along?” “Rather!” cried Jack. “Jump in.” We proceeded to the consulate in the bullock cart, escorted by a battalion of flies with fixed bayonets. “Meet you at the Golden Gate,” called Jack. He was absurdly happy when I left him with Nanette and climbed the narrow stairs to the consul’s office. The British consul was a quiet little official automaton who had buried his heart in somebody’s grave and had nothing left to hope for. “Good-morning, Mr. Decies,” he said, and smiled rather sadly as I plumped an ornamental object down on the table. “Good Lord!” said I. It was Nanette’s handbag, a frivolous trifle from Paris, which she had asked me to take care of as we got into the bullock cart. I had been carrying it unconsciously. “You are early,” the consul went on, “and I have not quite finished decoding a dispatch which I am instructed to deliver to you. The main point, however, is this: Major O’Shea arrives in Madeira to-morrow night, and----” “Oh!” A faint cry interrupted him. “I’m so sorry----” We both turned and looked up. Nanette stood in the doorway, her blue eyes so widely opened as to convey an impression of fear. “I came for my bag,” she said. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” CHAPTER IX. MOON OF MADNESS Fifteen minutes later I was in possession of the facts--and faced with a problem. “This chap Da Cunha,” said the consul, “isn’t Portuguese, in spite of his name. He’s some kind of what-not. He has the biggest radio outfit in the island up at his summer bungalow.” “He’s a Communist agent.” “I know,” the other returned quietly, “but it wasn’t my business to mention it first. He crashed in his car the other day and he’s dry-docked for repairs in a house he owns down here in the town. I know the surgeon who’s attending.” I did not contradict him, for I was reading once again the body of the decoded message: Arrive Funchal Harbour 2 A.M. Friday morning. Please meet me. Arrange for accommodation privately. No one must know. Letters have all been photographed. See Da Cunha does not slip away. Watch Arundel Castle. Try to learn if any associate of Da C. sails. Prevent if possible. I count on you. O’Shea. “Not a ship has cleared for European ports since Major O’Shea left,” said the consul. “So there’s a good chance.” “He’s returning in the destroyer?” “I don’t think so.” He glanced at a list of shipping. “Although this dispatch came from her. My idea is that they intercepted the Yeoward boat and put him on board. She’s due here at the time stated.” “Devilish awkward,” I murmured. “It’s late to cancel my sailing. I’m booked in the _Arundel Castle_.”