Fate has playfully set me in some queer situations, but I can recall none stranger than that in which I found myself now. O’Shea, occupying a room in the consul’s house, and engaged in private consultations with the military governor and others; Nanette, studiously declining to meet him--although his return to Funchal was the reason of her being there; Da Cunha, incapacitated, and only able to act through Macalister; the latter gentleman dancing attendance on Nanette. “He doesn’t know that I know anything,” she said to me. “And he doesn’t know that Major O’Shea is here.” We were taking tea on the terrace of Reid’s; the adorably pretty girl who had “missed the boat” and my innocent self subjects of much inaccurate speculation. Two frantic radios had been brought out to Nanette: one from her mother and one from Jack. “Please answer them for me,” was all she had said. “Nanette!” I looked into the childish blue eyes, in which, when O’Shea was mentioned, I had seen the woman-light shine. “I feel responsible for you. In playing with a dangerous man like Macalister you take risks which you don’t understand.” “I’m going to find out where the photographs are!” “Because of--O’Shea?” She looked at me bravely. “No,” she lied--yet did not know she lied. “Because Major O’Shea insulted my intelligence. I am going to find out for my own sake.” I dined with O’Shea in the town that night. He was frantically worried. That Macalister was the man to whom the task had been assigned of getting the photographs to Red headquarters he could not doubt. But where were they? And how did Macalister propose to smuggle them through? “Where is Nanette?” he asked suddenly. “Dining with Macalister at Reid’s.” “Damn!” said O’Shea; then: “Go back and look after her,” he begged. “I can’t stand it, Decies. You shouldn’t leave her.” “She dismissed me!” “Report yourself for duty. ’Phone me here.” I arrived at the hotel fifteen minutes later. The hall porter handed me a note as I ran in. I tore the envelope open in a sort of frenzy. This was the message: Photographs are on board a motor cruiser belonging to Gabriel da Cunha. I can’t find out where it is. But Macalister goes in it to-morrow morning to Las Palmas and from there by steamer to England. Have gone with him to the Casino. Will keep him as long as possible. Can’t do any more. Nanette. When I ’phoned to O’Shea, I heard him groan. “Send someone from the hotel to stand by her,” he said; or, rather, it was an order. “I can find out where Da Cunha’s boat lies by using the military wires. It’s hell, Decies, but I daren’t take chances. Join me here. But make sure she is safe.” CHAPTER XII. THE MOTOR CRUISER