“I knew that if my theory were sound they would waste no time. That was Julian Macalister on the ’phone. It’s the photographs they’re after, Decies!” Whereupon: “Thank God!” I exclaimed. O’Shea raised his eyes to me. “I forgive you,” he said softly, “for preferring my ruin to Nanette’s.” Certainly the swift tragedy of the last half hour must have numbed my brain. O’Shea had watched me, not angrily, for several moments before the full meaning of his words gripped my mind. I dropped into an armchair. Gabriel da Cunha and Julian Macalister, Communist agents, had triumphed at the eleventh hour! “My special duties as a secret service officer end to-night.” It was O’Shea who spoke, but his voice seemed to come hollowly from a great distance. “My resignation from the regiment must follow.” I spoke never a word. “There is just one thing, Decies, you can do.” Then I roused myself. I looked eagerly at O’Shea. I think, in that dark hour, I would have crawled through the hottest alleyways of hell to save him. “Why, in God’s name, didn’t you stick to your post?” Those words of his would sound in my ears for many a long day to come. “You can enable me to resign,” he went on. “It would be preferable to being gazetted: ‘The King having no further use for this officer’s services.’” “Anything,” I said. “I will do anything.” A party of serenaders, playing gently on guitars and singing a languorous love-song, passed along the road below. Their voices mingled in perfect harmony. A sea breeze bore perfume into the room. And I thought that this soft island, set like a jewel above the brow of Africa, might once have been the home of Calypso, stealing men’s senses. “It may seem mere splitting of hairs,” O’Shea went on. “But it serves my purpose, and so I ask you to do it.” He took up the precious portfolio, which lay upon the bed beside him. “I forced the lock last night,” he said, “but had it repaired and fitted with a key in the town this morning. I removed the seals intact and replaced them. Here is the key.” He held it out upon his open palm. “Take it.” I took it, wondering and waiting. “Now take the portfolio,” said he. “You will find it is locked. Hide it where you please. But its security means everything to me, to Nanette, and to England.” “You mean,” I began, “that I----” “I mean,” O’Shea took me up, “that _you_ may pay this price to ransom her. _I_ cannot. You have sworn no oath of allegiance to the Crown. I have.” “Good God!” I cried. “The decision is to rest with _me_!” “As a private citizen you can choose between the claims of your country, in this very difficult matter, and the claims of a helpless girl who has been given into your charge. As an officer, I have no choice.” He spoke in a low, monotonous voice. But I shall remember every word of his instructions whilst memory lasts. “You must not tell me where it is concealed. It should be in some place, though, that is quickly accessible.”