“Yes, he was here the day after Barberton came. At least, I had his letter the next morning and saw him for a few moments in the day. Queer devil, Oberzohn! And an industrious devil,” he added. “He sets everybody moving at once, and of course he’s right. A good general doesn’t attack with a platoon, but with an army, with all his strength, knowing that if he fails to pierce the line at one point he may succeed at another. It’s an interesting thought, Raymond, that at this moment there are probably some twenty separate and independent agencies working for our undoing. Most of them ignorant that their efforts are being duplicated. That is Oberzohn’s way—always has been his way. It’s the way he has started revolutions, the way he has organized religious riots.” After he had had his bath and changed, he announced his intention of calling at Chester Square. “I’m rather keen on meeting Joan Newton again, even if she has returned to her normal state of Jane Smith.” Miss Newton was not at home, the maid told him when he called. Would he see Mr. Montague Newton, who was not only at home, but anxious for him to call, if the truth be told, for he had seen his enemy approaching. “I shall be pleased,” murmured Manfred, and was ushered into the splendour of Mr. Newton’s drawing-room. “Too bad about Joan,” said Mr. Newton easily. “She left for the Continent this morning.” “Without a passport?” smiled Manfred. A little slip on the part of Monty, but how was Manfred to know that the authorities had, only a week before, refused the renewal of her passport pending an inquiry into certain irregularities? The suggestion had been that other people than she had travelled to and from the Continent armed with this individual document. “You don’t need a passport for Belgium,” he lied readily. “Anyway, this passport stuff’s a bit overdone. We’re not at war now.” “All the time we’re at war,” said Manfred. “May I sit down?” “Do. Have a cigarette?” “Let me see the brand before I accept,” said Manfred cautiously, and the man guffawed as at a great joke. The visitor declined the offer of the cigarette-case and took one from a box on the table. “And is Jane making the grand tour?” he asked blandly. “Jane’s run down and wants a rest.” “What’s the matter with Aylesbury?” He saw the man flinch at the mention of the women’s convict establishment, but he recovered instantly. “It is not far enough out, and I’m told that there are all sorts of queer people living round there. No, she’s going to Brussels and then on to Aix-la-Chapelle, then probably to Spa—I don’t suppose I shall see her again for a month or two.” “She was at Heavytree Farm in the early hours of this morning,” said Manfred, “and so were you. You were seen and recognized by a friend of mine—Mr. Raymond Poiccart. You travelled from Heavytree Farm to Oberzohn’s house in a Ford trolley.” Not by a flicker of an eyelid did Monty Newton betray his dismay.