“Perfectly. I shall return by the afternoon train,” was the despairing reply. “If you succeed,” Hayter continued, “I shall see that you get the usual acknowledgment, but I will, if you wish it, ask for your transfer to another branch of the service. I am not questioning your patriotism or your honour, Maderstrom, but you are not the man for this work.” “You are right,” Lessingham said. “I am not.” “It is not my affair,” Hayter proceeded, “to enquire too closely into the means used by our agents in carrying out our designs. That I find you in London in company with the wife of the man whom you are appointed to watch, may be a fact capable of the most complete and satisfactory explanation. I ask no questions. I only remind you that your country, even though it be only your adopted country, demands from you, as from all others in her service, unswerving loyalty, a loyalty uninfluenced by the claims of personal sentiment, duty, or honour. Have I said enough?” “You have said as much as it is wise for you to say,” Lessingham replied, his voice trembling with suppressed passion. “That is all, then,” the other concluded. “You know where to send or bring the chart when you have it? If you bring it yourself, it is possible that something which you may regard as a reward, will be offered to you.” Lessingham rose a little wearily to his feet. His farewell to Hayter was cold and lifeless. He left the hotel and started on his homeward way, struggling with a sense of intolerable depression. The streets through which he passed were sombre and unlit.