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beds, and Erikson lounged on a window-seat. Drusilla had a chair in front of the dressing-table, and toyed with a brush, while Palfrey squatted on the luggage rack. He took remarkably little time to tell a comprehensive story.
    â€˜Well, well!’ said Bruton, when he had finished. ‘That’s one of your best for a long time, Sap. I’m looking forward to meeting Señor Dias!’
    Erikson said: ‘Did you have to have this man, Charles Lumsden?’
    â€˜As it worked out, yes,’ said Palfrey. ‘I think he’ll be all right.’
    â€˜It seems to me that Charles Lumsden’s earned his ticket,’ said Bruton. ‘He didn’t have a nice time. When is your big luggage due?”
    â€˜Tomorrow.’
    â€˜And we start off tomorrow?’
    â€˜Not so fast,’ said Palfrey. ‘We want to find out what Dias is doing in Paris, and that may take a day or two.’ His manner was one of studied casualness. ‘We want to give Stefan time to settle down, too.’
    â€˜Raoul can get a line on Dias, maybe,’ said Bruton.
    â€˜Have you seen Raoul?’ asked Palfrey.
    â€˜Not yet,’ said Bruton.
    They did not have to wait long, for de Morency was at that moment downstairs.
    He did not send up his name, but came straight up and tapped on the door. When Palfrey called ‘Come in’ he thrust the door open, and called : ‘ Déjeuner pour madame et messieurs! ’and strode inside.
    There was devilment in the Frenchman; no one who saw him for the first time could long remain in doubt about that. It was in the gleam of his eyes and the smile on his lips, in the lean cut of his face, in the set of his shoulders. A mercurial man, a man who had no enemies except those whom he selected, for he was everyone’s friend, and if there was devilment in him there was nothing of the Devil. He was dark and immaculate, and seemed never to be still. He strode past Palfrey, his eyes dancing, went straight to Drusilla, put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her heartily on both cheeks: ‘And for madame—my heart!’
    Erikson kicked him, gently.
    â€˜All we require to make it perfect is Stefan,’ said de Morency. He saw Palfrey’s grin, and cried: Is he coming? But it is perfect! We must drink on that, and drink deep!’
    Â 
    Stefan Andromovitch was a remarkable man in more ways than one. The way which was noticed by everyone who saw him was the physical. He was a giant of a man, standing six feet seven, with vast shoulders, a man at whom people turned to stare in the streets, only to look away hastily, as if they were afraid of causing offence to the Colossus. Had they been able to look closely into his eyes, however, they would have known that there was no need to fear causing offence. Stefan had calm eyes, large, grey, slanting upwards slightly towards the temples – there was another hint of the Mongol in him, too, for his cheek-bones were high – and ever ready to smile. Yet they were often grave eyes. He had seen many horrors. He had been among those who had fought when the Nazi avalanche had descended upon Russia, had been in the defence of Moscow, and might have reached a high position in the Red Army but for his other qualifications – a quickness of mind and eye which had made the Kremlin experiment by sending him behind the German lines with an intelligence detachment.
    So large a man was, in the opinion of many people, useless for secret intelligence work. No one really understood how Stefan overcame that disadvantage. The fact remained, however, that when the Marquis of Brett had first suggested the inter-Allied Intelligence Branch, known as Z.5, Stefan had been the Russian representative.
    He had quickly won Palfrey’s heart.
    He had a serene temperament, ability far above the average, a quiet sense of humour and – of major importance – he did not expect English, French and American representatives