“There is always room for three more passengers in any British liner,” he replied: “a diplomatic agent, a King’s Messenger, and a pretty woman.” “What are you expected to do?” I asked. “I am expected to prevent him landing!” “But”--doubtless my expression became more blank than ever--“surely the authorities at Southampton----” “The authorities at Southampton don’t know in what name he is travelling. Neither does Capetown, apparently. They merely know that he’s on board--with a false passport. He made South Africa too hot to hold him. Moscow’s idea seems to be that another Boer war would add to the gaiety of nations. The Boers don’t seem to think so.” He stirred languidly in the cane lounge chair and, raising his monocle, surveyed a number of ants performing mysterious evolutions on his white drill suit. It was very still and peaceful in the little palm grove. A faint breeze carried perfume from the gardens, a sound of distant voices and soft laughter. Outside the cool oasis in which we sat, shaded, Madeira sunlight blazed on a million gay flowers, and the low mossy walls were alive with lizards. “Have you ever seen this man?” I asked. “No,” O’Shea turned his head lazily. “I haven’t the slightest idea what he looks like. Unless I get some further news by radio, my chance of identifying this Red sportsman is a bad hundred to one.” “But you say he has a false passport?” “So I understand. Probably issued in Paris or Milan or even New York, and in perfect order. Thousands of undesirables travel about the world annually with other people’s passports, Decies. The appended photograph is the only snag, and you might be surprised to learn how easy it is to replace it and duplicate the official stamp.” Presently I went hunting for Nanette. My guardianship of this dainty, wayward ward was soon to cease; and whilst I lacked the courage to think about saying good-bye at Southampton, I had learned that for a man of my age and temperament the rôle of official uncle to a beautiful girl was no sort of job. Tea was in full swing on the terrace, but Nanette was not there. I thought she might be on the tennis courts, and I strolled down the steps and along the sloping, flower-gay path sacred to basking lizards. Halfway down there is a sort of abutment, overhanging the lower gardens and possessing a stone seat. Here, in a lounge chair, her parasol propped against the low wall, I saw Nanette. Her little feet tucked up on the chair, to protect her bare legs from the ants, she sat manicuring her finger nails. She neither saw nor heard my approach. And I stood still watching her. Quite mechanically she was polishing away with a chamois burnisher, but her blue eyes were staring, unseeingly, out over the bay. As I studied the charming, pensive profile, I wondered, as I had wondered too often, what fate had in store for little Nanette. My more immediate wonder was concerned with the problem of how she had contrived to be alone.