“I was mad to do it,” she confessed. “I am sorry--now. Please send a message to the ship. They will be frantic.” “But--your things? You will have to wait for a whole week.” “They are in the small wardrobe trunk. I bribed Pedro to leave it behind. Oh, please, Mr. Decies!” She clutched my arm and I felt how she trembled. “Look after me. I am so frightened.” CHAPTER XI. THE PHOTOGRAPHS The S.S. _Aguila_ of Messrs. Yeoward Brothers dropped her anchor on to the rocky bottom of Funchal Harbour at fifteen minutes after two A.M. under a perfect moon like the crescent of Islam; a true Moon of Madness. They had the ladder down in a trice, and my boat drew alongside. I ran up to the deck--and there was Edmond O’Shea in a white drill suit, more like John Barrymore than ever with the moonlight gleaming on his wavy hair. We shook hands in silence, whilst his searching gray eyes looked into mine and mine told him all that I was helpless to conceal. Then: “It was good of you, Decies,” he said. “My message has put you out?” “I had booked in the _Arundel_; but it didn’t matter. My time is my own.” Indeed, already the spell of The O’Shea was on me. There are many names honoured in connection with the Grand Parade, but ask one of the men who knows what happened on the Retreat when Smith Dorrien sent for O’Shea; a company commander then, and only a major now. We all won the war, according to our own accounts; the old Irish Guards--what’s left of them--would convince you that Edmond O’Shea helped us. “What has happened?” I asked him. He gave me the facts, whilst we enjoyed the hospitality of the captain who was delighted to have been instrumental in helping so distinguished a passenger. “The original letters are safe in Whitehall, Decies. But I found pinholes showing where they had been stuck on a board--obviously to be photographed! We sent a radio to Captain McPhee here, and I doubled back. The mails will be watched at Southampton; but I don’t fear the mails. Some trusted agent will carry the photographs. I wired headquarters for likely birds.” “Scotland Yard replied,” said I. “One, Julian Macalister, is under surveillance.” O’Shea’s cold eyes fixed me. “Who’s watching him?” he asked. This brought me to it, and I gulped a quick drink before replying: “Nanette.” His expression changed; then: “So they are still here?” he said. “_She_ is still here.” The captain excused himself gracefully, on a plea of duty; and I told O’Shea. “You think she overheard you in the consul’s office?” “I know she did. She admitted it.” “And so you told her--the rest?” “Was I wrong?” O’Shea stood up and paced the room a couple of times; then: “I don’t know,” said he. “Let’s go ashore.”