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unpleasant face, and Tommy put him down as being either a Russian or a Pole.

He was probably about fifty years of age, his shoulders cringed a little as he

talked, and his eyes, small and crafty, shifted unceasingly.

Having already lunched heartily, Tommy contented himself with ordering a Welsh

rarebit and a cup of coffee. Whittington ordered a substantial lunch for himself

and his companion; then, as the waitress withdrew, he moved his chair a little

closer to the table and began to talk earnestly in a low voice. The other man

joined in. Listen as he would, Tommy could only catch a word here and there; but

the gist of it seemed to be some directions or orders which the big man was

impressing on his companion, and with which the latter seemed from time to time

to disagree. Whittington addressed the other as Boris.

Tommy caught the word "Ireland" several times, also "propaganda," but of Jane

Finn there was no mention. Suddenly, in a lull in the clatter of the room, he got

one phrase entire. Whittington was speaking. "Ah, but you don't know Flossie.

She's a marvel. An archbishop would swear she was his own mother. She gets the

voice right every time, and that's really the principal thing."

Tommy did not hear Boris's reply, but in response to it Whittington said

something that sounded like: "Of course--only in an emergency...."

Then he lost the thread again. But presently the phrases became distinct again

whether because the other two had insensibly raised their voices, or because

Tommy's ears were getting more attuned, he could not tell. But two words

certainly had a most stimulating effect upon the listener. They were uttered by

Boris and they were: "Mr. Brown."

Whittington seemed to remonstrate with him, but he merely laughed.

"Why not, my friend? It is a name most respectable--most common. Did he not

choose it for that reason? Ah, I should like to meet him--Mr. Brown."

There was a steely ring in Whittington's voice as he replied:

Who knows? You may have met him already."

Bah!" retorted the other. "That is children's talk--a fable for the police. Do you

know what I say to myself sometimes? That he is a fable invented by the Inner

Ring, a bogy to frighten us with. It might be so."

"And it might not."

The Secret Adversary