The suspense was not of long duration, however, for in about half an hour's time, the destroyer slowed down and Desmond's host vanished. When he reappeared, it was to summon Desmond on deck.
They lay aside a mole by some steps cut in the solid concrete.
Here Desmond's host took leave of him.
"There should be a car waiting for you up there," he said.
There on top of the mole, exposed to the keen blast of the wind, a large limousine was standing. A chauffeur, who looked blue with cold, got down from his seat as Desmond emerged from the stairs and touched his cap.
"Major Okewood?" he asked.
"That's my name!" said Desmond.
"If you'll get in, sir, we'll start at once!" the man replied.
Befogged and bewildered, Desmond entered the car, which cautiously proceeded along the breakwater, with glimpses of black water and an occasional dim light on either hand. They bumped over the railway-lines and rough cobblestones of a dockyard, glided through a slumbering town, and so gradually drew out into the open country where the car gathered speed and fairly raced along the white, winding road. Desmond had not the faintest idea of their whereabouts or ultimate destination. He was fairly embarked on the great adventure now, and he was philosophically content to let Fate have its way with him. He found himself wondering rather indolently what the future had in store.
The car slowed down and the chauffeur switched the headlights on.
Their blinding glare revealed some white gate-posts at the entrance of a quiet country station. Desmond looked at his watch.
It was half-past one. The car stopped at the entrance to the booking-office where a man in an overcoat and bowler was waiting.
"This way, Major, please," said the man in the bowler, and led the way into the dark and silent station. At the platform a short train consisting of an engine, a Pullman car and a brakesman's van stood, the engine under steam. By the glare from the furnace Desmond recognized his companion. It was Matthews, the Chief's confidential clerk.
Matthews held open the door of the Pullman for Desmond and followed him into the carriage. A gruff voice in the night shouted:
"All right, Charley!" a light was waved to and fro, and the special pulled out of the echoing station into the darkness beyond.
In the corner of, the Pullman a table was laid for supper. There was a cold chicken, a salad, and a bottle of claret. On another table was a large tin box and a mirror with a couple of electric lights before it. At this table was seated a small man with gray hair studying a large number of photographs.
"If you will have your supper, Major Okewood, sir," said Matthews, "Mr. Crook here will get to work. We've not got too much time."The sea air had made Desmond ravenously hungry. He sat down promptly and proceeded to demolish the chicken and make havoc of the salad. Also he did full justice to the very excellent St.
Estephe.
As he ate he studied Matthews, who was one of those undefinable Englishmen one meets in tubes and 'buses, who might be anything from a rate collector to a rat catcher. He had sandy hair plastered limply across his forehead, a small moustache, and a pair of watery blue eyes. Mr. Crook, who continued his study of his assortment of photographs without taking the slightest notice of Desmond, was a much more alert looking individual, with a shock of iron gray hair brushed back and a small pointed beard.
"Matthew's," said Desmond as he supped, "would it be indiscreet to ask where we are?""In Kent, Major," replied Matthews.
"What station was that we started from?"
"Faversham."
"And where are we going, might I inquire?""To Cannon Street, sir!"
"And from there?"
Mr. Matthews coughed discreetly.
"I can't really say, sir, I'm sure! A car will meet you there and I can go home to bed."The ends sealed again! thought Desmond. What a man of caution, the Chief!
"And this gentleman here, Matthews?" asked Desmond, lighting one of the skipper's cigars.
"That, sir, is Mr. Crook, who does any little jobs we require in the way of make-up. Our expert on resemblances, if I may put it that way, sir, for we really do very little in the way of disguises. Mr. Crook is an observer of what I may call people's points, sir, their facial appearance, their little peculiarities of manner, of speech, of gait. Whenever there is any question of a disguise, Mr. Crook is called in to advise as to the possibilities of success. I believe I am correct in saying, Crook, that you have been engaged on the Major here for some time. Isn't it so?"Crook looked up a minute from his table.
"That's right," he said shortly, and resumed his occupation of examining the photographs.
"And what's your opinion about this disguise of mine?" Desmond asked him.
"I can make a good job of you, Major," said the expert, "and so Ireported to the Chief. You'll want to do your hair a bit different and let your beard grow, and then, if you pay attention to the lessons I shall give you, in a week or two, you'll be this chap here," and he tapped the photograph in his hand, "to the life."So saying he handed Desmond the photograph. It was the portrait of a man about forty years of age, of rather a pronounced Continental type, with a short brown beard, a straight, rather well-shaped nose and gold-rimmed spectacles. His hair was cut en brosse, and he was rather full about the throat and neck. Without a word, Desmond stretched out his hand and gathered up a sheaf of other photos, police photos of Mr. Basil Bellward, front face and profile seen from right and left, all these poses shown on the same picture, some snapshots and various camera studies. Desmond shook his head in despair. He was utterly unable to detect the slightest resemblance between himself and this rather commonplace looking type of business man.
"Now if you'd just step into the compartment at the end of the Pullman, Major," said Crook, "you'll find some civilian clothes laid out. Would you mind putting them on? You needn't trouble about the collar and tie, or coat and waistcoat for the moment.