“Six photographic negatives,” he went on musingly, “and twelve prints--as all the letters photographed ran to more than one page. It’s odd to reflect, Decies, that these scraps of film and paper might light a bonfire big enough to burn up a whole Empire.” Odd indeed; yet I knew it to be true. For that relentless loom which the Arabs call Kismet had drawn me into the pattern of this human carpet woven of anarchy, love, sacrifice, and God knows what other threads. I knew; therefore: “Why not destroy them?” said I. O’Shea shook his head. “My instructions are to deliver them intact to headquarters,” he replied. “Are you returning in the Royal Mail boat?” “No. They are sending for me.” “Lodge them in the bank, then.” “Contrary to instructions, Decies. They must remain in my charge.” I met the fixed stare of his cold gray eyes. “In which respect,” said I, “your instructions resemble mine.” “And do honour to both of us,” he added. I lighted a cigarette, smiling perhaps a trifle wryly. When a wayward beauty of eighteen deliberately misses the boat home and her parents radio an eligible bachelor that they hold him responsible for her safety, one sits up and takes notice. Traditional English phlegm is called upon to do its best. On the terrace above the bathing pool, a band was playing jazz. Below my windows a multi-coloured cascade of flowers poured down, wave upon wave, to meet the deep blue ocean. Sounds of laughter came floating up. Little yellow birds darting gaily from palm to palm appeared to find life a thing of song. I wondered. Was it Abraham Lincoln who confessed that he could mould men but not circumstance? “It seems absurd,” said O’Shea, breaking a long silence. “But do you know what I was thinking?” “No.” “That, after all, Madeira is a very lonely island.” He stared at me fixedly, until: “What do you mean exactly?” I asked. “Decies,” he said, “the Reds have had a nasty set-back in England. But there’s propaganda there”--he pointed to the portfolio--“for which Moscow would pay a substantial fortune. They have forty-eight hours to act.” “But only two agents in the island--one out of the ring.” “Gabriel da Cunha has a mysterious radio set in his bungalow. He will be in touch with his chief--and his chief is a dangerously clever man.” The official records of the Irish Guards afford sufficient credentials for the courage of Major Edmond O’Shea. He was watching me with that close regard which seemed to concern itself with one’s subconscious self, so pointedly did it penetrate; and, rather fatuously: “You are surely not nervous about your charge?” I queried. He continued to watch me for a moment, then: “No,” he replied, and his expression grew abstracted. “Oddly enough, I was thinking of yours.” He turned aside, toying with the black-rimmed monocle that he rarely wore unless he were annoyed. At the Guards’ depot in Essex it used to be said that the appearance on parade of O’Shea wearing his monocle made bayonets rattle.