The visitor stayed for about half an hour, and then Fordinghame recalled her to take some fresh dictation. When he had finished, he seemed inclined for a chat.
“Remarkable man, that, Miss Allister; he is one of our most reliable agents. He flew back from Pé to-day.”
She stared at him, unable to control her surprise.
“That astonishes you, evidently.”
“Well, Sir Brian, I—I confess it does. I always understood from the Clintons that Mr. Mallory was in the insurance business.”
Fordinghame laughed.
“So he is, my dear young lady—but that is merely one side of his character. He is what the medical wallahs call a dual personality. By day—if I may put it that way—he is engaged in his insurance business, while by night (or the equivalent of night) he serves me as the ace of Y.1! But that, of course,”—becoming serious—“is a very close secret. You understand?”
“Perfectly, Sir Brian. And you can trust me to respect your confidence.”
“I felt I could; otherwise I should not have told you.” He opened his cigarette case and held it out. Rosemary declined the invitation to smoke; she still had a great deal of typing to do. Indeed, for a girl who had never had to think about any kind of work before, she was getting through an astonishing amount of labour.
It was half-past six before she had finished the final page. Sir Brian had been gone for nearly twenty minutes, and, apart from the couple of clerks, she had been alone in the building. It gave her an uncanny sensation to reflect what secrets could have been disclosed by that huge steel cabinet let into the wall on the opposite side of the room to Fordinghame’s desk.
As she walked down the few steps to the pavement, a man stepped forward, raising his hat.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Miss Allister,” said Peter Mallory.
Her first impression was one of resentment. No matter how much value Fordinghame put on this man’s services, no matter how deeply he was in the personal esteem of Colonel Clinton and Bobby Wingate, she was unable to fight down the feeling of antagonism he inspired in her. Perhaps it was because, loving all beautiful things, she did not like his gaunt face and generally unprepossessing appearance. Mallory was a gentleman beyond any question or quibble. His manners were polished, his approach good. But—well, there it was!
It was because she kept silent, perhaps, that the man continued.
“I didn’t like to ask you in the office just now—but may I ask if to-night is propitious for our little dinner-party?”
“Did I promise to come to a dinner-party?”
He raised his eyebrows in an almost comic look of bewilderment.
“But, of course, Miss Allister. Don’t you remember? It was when you were driving me back from Croydon on the day that Bobby Wingate flew to Paris.”
It was the mention of Bobby’s name that did it.
“Oh, yes,” she replied, as though suddenly remembering. “Well, to-night will do as well as any other night—perhaps better: I’ve had a frightfully thick time of it here to-day, and I must say I should not object to a little mild excitement. Do you feel awfully rich, Mr. Mallory?”
“Awfully rich?” he repeated, a little perplexed.
“Because,” she went on quickly, “I’m in that mood: I feel like the Savoy Grill or the Berkeley, with orchids and lots of distinguished people about; a famous maître d’hôtel at my elbow, a fleet of soft-footed waiters, Pommery on ice—and all the rest of it.”
He was quick to respond to her mood.
“Then I suggest the Savoy Grill. We will dine late—and dance.”
“Eight-thirty will suit me. That will give me an hour for sleep before—”
“I call for you,” he supplied.
***
The famous rendezvous was crowded to the last improvised table when Rosemary entered the Savoy Grill at 8.35 that evening.
“You booked a table?” she inquired.
Her escort regarded her quizzically.
“You surely don’t think I should have asked for the company of the most charming young lady in London without taking such an elementary precaution?” Mallory replied. “Yes, I’ve booked a table.”
Indeed, at that moment the maître d’hôtel approached. His professional smile looked as though it might slip out of place at any moment. The man was worried.
He recovered his poise when he recognised Rosemary’s companion.
“Ah, Mr. Mallory—the table by the wall.…Will it suit?”
“Admirably. Don’t you think so, my dear?”
Objecting to being addressed in this way, although Mallory probably did not mean anything beyond an avuncular interest, Rosemary nodded.
“Yes, quite well,” she said.
***
Her escort proved to possess one quality: he could order a dinner, while his choice of wines was also to be commended. Enjoying her food and interested by the company around her, Rosemary began to feel that perhaps she had not made such a sacrifice after all. A couple of hours before, when resting in her bedroom, she had told herself that if it had not been for Bobby she would not have accepted this invitation. It had been for his sake—in the hope of learning something about what he had really been up to in Pé—that she had agreed to dine with Mallory that night.
“Did you go to Pé, Mr. Mallory?” she inquired, after declaring the fish delicious.
“Yes; I went on my usual business.”
“Insurance, isn’t it? Sir Brian told me,” she added quickly.
“Yes—insurance. Are you willing to give me your confidence, Miss Allister?”
“My confidence? About what?”
“I’m worried about young Wingate—Bobby,” he returned, without answering her question. “I suppose you know—working with Fordinghame, as you have done during the last few days—that Bobby has been behaving very indiscreetly in Pé?”
“Do you think I ought to answer that?”
“Answer it?” He laughed. “I admire your discretion, but surely you need not be so careful with me? Apart altogether from my association with Y.1—hasn’t Fordinghame told you I work for him?—the fact that we’re both such close friends of Bobby—”
“Yes, I know all about that, Mr. Mallory,” she broke in sharply. “But tell me exactly in what way Bobby has been playing the fool?”
“Well, I hate to say it, but he has apparently laid himself open to suspicion by our own agents in the city.”
She looked at him with a directness he appeared to find slightly amusing.
“You don’t seriously think that Bobby is a traitor, do you?”
He glanced round cautiously.
“You never know who may be listening,” he explained. “No, I do not think Bobby is a traitor,” he continued; “the idea is absolutely ridiculous. I should very much like to know the numbers of the British agents who have communicated these reports.”
Rosemary took some time before replying.
“Then if you don’t think Bobby is a traitor, what has he done to place himself under such suspicion?”
“You are in a better position than I am to know that, Miss Allister. All I know is what I have heard from Fordinghame. Look here,” he continued, “if you could let me have the numbers of the agents who have sent in these reports I could judge pretty well whether their information was likely to be true. Do you think you could get them for me—without, of course, letting Fordinghame know? He’s a fanatic on some points.”
“I must think about it,” she replied.
It struck her as being curious that Mallory should have made this request. Being a trusted Y.1 agent himself, he must know that the concealment of the identity of any man or woman working for the British Intelligence was most strictly observed. So far as she had been able to ascertain, this rule was never broken. Then why should Mallory ask her to bre
ak it? Was it because he thought he could trade on her inexperience?
“I dare say you think that is an unusual request, Miss Allister?” he remarked.
“Well, frankly, I do.”
“Then forget all about it,” he said easily. “I was only anxious to help allay any suspicion you yourself might have had about Bobby.”
“I have never had any suspicion of Bobby. When he gets back to town, I haven’t the slightest doubt that he will be able to explain everything.”
“I’m sure he will—and now suppose we talk of something else.”
For the next half-hour Mallory proved such an agreeable companion that, in spite of the perhaps unfair prejudice she had against the man, she found herself almost liking him. After that his talk lost its sparkle and the speaker became distrait. She wondered if some remark she had made could have caused this change, and then noticed that Mallory was staring with great concentration at a table on the opposite side of the room. Two men were occupying it. One was young, the other middle-aged.
The expression on Mallory’s face was puzzling. His eyes were alight and his face was flushed. The rest of the world (herself included) might not have existed: all his attention and interest were focused on the other table. When she suggested they should have their coffee while watching the cabaret in the restaurant, he did not answer at first.
Then, like a person coming out of a trance, he said disjointedly: “I’m terribly sorry.…What was it you said?”
Her reply was slightly tart.
“I merely suggested that I should like to drink my coffee while watching the cabaret—but, of course, it doesn’t matter.”
“My dear, I am tremendously sorry—but I am afraid my mind was wandering.”
“Exactly,” she said dryly.
“But I will endeavour to make amends.” Yet, still, for some as yet unexplained reason, his attention was not on her, but on the couple at the distant table.
She was forced to follow his gaze. What was it about these two men that Mallory found so absorbing? What attraction could they have for him?
At that moment the older man, who had been sitting with his back to her, rose—and Rosemary imagined that what before had been dark was now clear. Of course, she might possibly be wrong—she hoped she was. At any rate, she was completely satisfied on one point: her companion’s interest had been drawn not to the older of the two men, but to the almost unnaturally good-looking youth who shared the table with him.
But as soon as she believed she had solved one puzzle, another one presented itself. The older man had risen with the direct purpose of speaking to Mallory. The latter’s face had gone white when he recognised the other; he was labouring under some sense of apprehension—that was evident.
The stroller must have made some imperceptible sign, for Mallory whispered to her, “Will you excuse me for a moment?” and, without waiting for her permission, rose and walked towards the entrance. He had gone to join the other man, without a doubt.
***
Rosemary found her father in the library when she got back.
“Hullo, pet!” he said, looking up from the book he was reading. “Have a good time?”
“I had rather an interesting time,” was her reply.
The banker blinked behind his reading glasses.
“Well, isn’t that the same thing?” he demanded.
“Not always.…What have you got there?” She looked over his shoulder. “Another of those horrible detective stories again?”
“This one isn’t dreadful—it’s written by A. E. W. Mason.”
“Oh, well, that’s different—then it’s a work of art,” agreed his daughter. “I want something to read, myself.”
She drifted over to the well-stocked shelves. Like many a sedentary worker, Matthew Allister’s tastes in literature ran strongly to tales of adventure and bloodshed, but he also fancied himself as a serious student of criminology, and dined solemnly on the third day of each month with a number of men of similar inclinations who had formed a club the title of which none of them ever seemed very clear about.
Absorbed in The Prisoner in the Opal, Allister did not pay any more attention to his daughter until she stooped to kiss him “good-night.” Then, with perfunctory interest, he looked at the book she was carrying.
“I shouldn’t have thought that would appeal to you, pet,” he said. “Whatever makes you want to read it?”
Rosemary’s face was inscrutable.
“I have a reason,” she said.
Chapter XIV
At Woolvington
The joy of returning to London! It was this sense of delight that made Bobby Wingate smile instead of frown when, a short while after the air liner took off, homeward bound for Croydon, he was addressed by the man sitting in the seat behind.
“Excuse me, but aren’t you Wingate?” said the voice.
Bobby looked at the speaker for a few moments before recognition came.
“Why, it’s you—Stinker!”
The man who had laboured under this insalubrious nickname at Repington grinned as though he had received the choicest of compliments. Aubrey Dexter had never been one to put on side, and even now that he was an Under-Secretary at the British Legation at Sofia, he conformed to his school tradition.
“What are you doing so far away from your base?” asked Wingate.
Dexter’s freckled face slipped into a fresh grin.
“Oh, I’m trotting back to attend the Annual Reunion dinner of the Old Boys’ Association. Haven’t you had a card?”
“It may be at home. I’ve been on leave in Paris,” explained Bobby.
“Well, you ought to come, you know,” said the other. “What will happen to the old school tie if you slack like this?”
“All right, don’t rub it in. Where is the show?”
“Trocadero to-morrow night, seven-thirty. That gives you plenty of time to make up your mind. By the way, you’re still in the Service, I suppose?”
“Yes—Tanks.”
“Then you must wear uniform. The President (old ‘Smiler’ Bunty is the big noise this year) put it expressly in the notice that all members now with the Services should wear uniform, and that others who held decorations should flaunt them to the world.”
“Damn!”
“Why, what’s the matter?”
“Well, it will mean my going down to my unit at Woolvington and collecting my mess kit, which is in my quarters.”
“That’s not much of a hardship, surely?”
Bobby grimaced. He was thinking of Rosemary Allister and how delighted she would be when he turned up so unexpectedly. There were still three days of his leave to run, and he determined to spend as much of that time as possible with her. He’d been a bit of a fool, now that he came to look back—spouting all that stuff about her money being such a fatal obstacle. It had only needed a few days’ absence from London to convince him of how deeply he was in love with this girl. Minna Braun? Well, that was entirely different; and, besides, she was—well, not the type to get married. An affair, yes: he couldn’t imagine any one more attractive for a thing of that sort; but marriage—definitely, no.
The last words that Stinker said to him as they left the bus which had conveyed them from Croydon airport to Victoria Station were:
“Now, I’m relying on you, Bobby—you will come?”
“Yes, I’ll come. But curse you, all the same—it will mean my spending a night in Mess instead of in town.”
Parking his luggage in the left-luggage office at Victoria Station, he was fortunate to find that a train for Woolvington was leaving in twenty minutes’ time. That would just allow him to ring up Rosemary and explain the position. But when he got through to the house in Clarges Square the butler told him that Miss Allister was out.
Oh, well, it didn’t matter—she’d be
back the next day. His greeting kiss could wait, and he hoped would taste all the sweeter for the delay.
***
He arrived at the Mess about ten o’clock, to be greeted joyously by his fellow-officers when he entered the anteroom.
“Why, you old rotter,” shouted Hollister, “I imagined you were up to no end of games in gay Paree. Why this thusness?”
Bobby explained as quickly as possible.
“What on earth made you cut short your leave, man? Weren’t the girls the right shape, or did the money run out?”
“Both,” he said succinctly, hoping that this would close the argument more quickly. But all the time he was conscious of those two fifty-pound notes nestling in his pocket-book. He would pay them into his bank the first thing in the morning, draw out a tenner and give Rosemary the best lunch the Berkeley could provide. Dear kid! she loved the Berkeley. Well, she should go there and have that favourite table of hers in the corner.
From the O.C. downwards every one appeared glad to see him, and very quickly he had plunged into “shop” talk, just as though he had never been away. Hollister, who was his particular pal, told him that the prize item in the latest news was the arrival from the experimental section of a new amphibious type of tank which was to undergo trials early the following morning.
“By the way, Wingate,” went on Hollister, “did you hear much prospective war talk in Paris?”
“No. Everything seemed much the same as usual.” Billy Hollister’s eyes would have opened wide enough, he imagined, if he told him all that had happened since he had left the Mess.
Keenness was the dominating characteristic of his brother officers, and they all sat up late that night discussing the possibilities of this new type of amphibious tank. Bobby was on hand the next morning to witness the trials, but prior to this he had visited the bank and had taken the keenest interest in the construction of the new land fortress. It was not until the early afternoon that he was able to get away.
Arriving at Victoria about tea-time, he took a taxi to his club. Prompted more by habit than anything else, he asked for his letters and was handed a telegram.
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