He was carrying a stout wicker-work basket, securely fastened by a leather strap with a convenient handle.

“This is Mr. Anstey’s camping outfit, sir,” he announced. “I think you will find everything you require except milk and bread. I presume that you will be able to procure them locally. The methylated spirit is in one of the larger flasks.”

“Very kind of you, Watkins. Afraid I’m giving you a lot of trouble.” Reaching up, Owen unhooked his raincoat from a peg on the hat-stánd.

“Not at all, sir! It’s a pleasure. May I inquire how long you intend to be absent?”

“Depends on the weather. Provided it keeps like this I shall stay over the week-end. If it breaks up, that’s another matter. Anyhow, should I decide to come back suddenly I’ll give you a ring.”

“Very good, sir. I hope you enjoy yourself and have some luck with the fishing. I have heard Mr. Anstey say that there are still a few big trout below the weir at Thames Ferry.”

“Just where I propose to try.” Owen set down his bag alongside the canvas-covered rod on the hall chest, and as he did so the sharp trill of a bell sounded through the flat. It was followed by a vigorous rat-tat on the knocker.

“That will be the car, I expect, sir.”

Moving forward sedately, Watkins opened the door. A youngish-looking man in chauffeur’s uniform who was standing outside took possession of the basket, and with a final word of farewell Owen gathered up the remainder of his luggage. In another moment or so he was clambering into the comfortable four-seater Daimler which an obliging hire company had placed at his disposal.

“Playford, isn’t it, sir? Anywhere special you want to be put down?”

“You know Martin’s boat-house?”

“Oh yes—been there several times.”

“Well, that’s where we’re heading. You can take things easy: I’m in no particular hurry.”

“O.K., sir.”

With a casual nod the driver climbed into his seat, and before Owen had finished lighting his pipe to his complete satisfaction, they were bowling smoothly westward in the direction of Hammersmith.

Now that he had actually embarked on his adventure he was conscious of a feeling of exhilaration to which he had been a stranger ever since that fateful night in the Indian Ocean. With something definite to do, some really important task on which to concentrate his energies, the black cloud of depression so long hanging over his spirits seemed to have been suddenly and miraculously dispersed. The fact that he could still be of use, that he was not a mere piece of discarded lumber, was the precise tonic for which he had been unconsciously craving. It healed and restored his crippled sense of manhood, and as the car slipped across the crowded Broadway a little heart-felt grunt of satisfaction issued from his lips. Yes, it was fine to be on active service again, no matter how fantastically outside his own line this new commission appeared likely to prove.

What sort of figure he would cut as a private detective Heaven alone knew. That he possessed some qualifications must obviously be the opinion of both Captain Greystoke and his late skipper. It was impossible to believe that he would have been selected for a job of this nature without very serious consideration, and fail though he might to achieve anything sensational, he would at least do his utmost to justify their confidence. It was not merely a question of his own future career. By handling the affair successfully he would no doubt increase his chance of being offered further and perhaps more responsible duties, but the principal emotion that dominated his heart and mind was a grim desire to assist in smashing up this gang of spies and traitors whose evil activities seemed to be endangering the very honour and safety of his own beloved Service.

When he thought of Medlicot his lips tightened. Impossible as it was to feel the slightest sympathy for a man who had betrayed his country, such a sordid ending to what had promised to be a brilliant and valuable life could only be regarded as a pitiful tragedy. It filled him with an unspeakable loathing for Craig and the whole rotten crowd who were playing into the Nazis’ hands. For vermin of that type merciless extermination was the obvious treatment, and the prospect of lending a hand in this desirable and highly patriotic task sent a warm thrill of pleasurable anticipation trickling down to the very depths of his being.

As to the best way in which to set about his mission, it was too soon as yet to make any exact plans. At present his idea was to drift leisurely down as far as Thames Ferry and establish himself for the week-end somewhere in the neighbourhood of Otter’s Holt. The fishing tackle which he had brought with him would provide a plausible excuse for his presence on the spot, and by frequenting the inn and getting in contact with its regular patrons he would at least stand an excellent chance of familiarising himself with the local gossip.

For the rest, things must be left more or less to shape themselves.