"Fortunately for you you are not married, Nye," exclaimed the Honourable Robert, whom I strongly suspected to be of German birth, though he spoke English perfectly and had appeared to have many friends among the habitués of the "Savoy." Nye was the name I had given. "You'll have two places of residence--here with Shand, and with me at my little place over at Barnes. You know the main roads pretty well, you told me?" "I did a lot of touring when I was with Mr. Michelreid, the novelist," I said. "He used to be always in search of fresh places to write about. We always went to the Continent a lot." "Well," he laughed, "you'll soon have an opportunity of putting your knowledge of the road to the test. To be of any real service to us, you'll have to be able to find your way, say, from here to Harwich in the night without taking one wrong turning." "I've been touring England for nearly five years, off and on," I said, with confidence; "therefore few people know the roads, perhaps, better than myself." "Very well, we shall see," remarked Shand; "only not a word--not even to your sweetheart. My friend and I are engaged in some purely private affairs--in fact, I think there is no harm in telling you--now that you are to be our confidential servant--that we are secret agents of the Government, and as such are compelled on occasions to act in a manner that any one unacquainted with the truth might consider somewhat peculiar. Do you understand?" "Perfectly," I said. "And not a word must pass your lips--not to a soul," he urged. "For each success we gain in the various missions entrusted to us you will receive from the Secret Service fund a handsome honorarium as acknowledgment of your faithful services." Then he walked away, gaily singing the gay chanson of Magda at the Ambassadeurs: "Sous le ciel pur ou le ciel gris Dès que les joyeux gazouillis Des oiselets se font entendre, Une voix amoureuse et tendre Par la fenêtre au blanc rideau Lance les couplets d'un rondeau; C'est la voix d'une midinette Qui fait, en chantant, sa toilette. Ah! le joli réveil-matin, Quand il faut partir au turbin! Bientôt, de la chambre voisine, Répond une voix masculine. Paris! Paris! Gai paradis! Voilà les chansons de Paris!" Much gratified at securing such a post, I drove the Honourable Robert back to London and waited for him in the courtyard of the Hotel Cecil while he was inside for a quarter of an hour. Then, getting up beside me he directed me to drive to Hammersmith Bridge, where, at a big block of red-brick flats overlooking the river, called Lonsdale Mansions, we pulled up, and he took me up to his small cosily furnished flat, where William, the clean-shaven and highly-respectable valet, awaited him. The "ninety" was garaged, I found, almost opposite, and when I returned to the flat the Honourable Robert was at the telephone in the dining-room talking to the man we had left near Welwyn.