Okewood of the Secret Service | Page 4

finishing..."
The great curtain switched down suddenly, drowning a cascade of
applause, and a bundle of old clothes, twitching nerves, liquid
perspiration and grease paint hopped off the stage into the centre of the
group. An electric bell trilled, the limelights shut off, with a jerk that
made the eyes ache, a back-cloth soared aloft and another glided down
into its place, the comedian took two, three, four calls, then vanished
into a horde of dim figures scuttling about in the gloom.
An electric bell trilled again and deep silence fell once more, broken

only by the hissing of the lights.
"You ought to stop behind after your turn and see her, Mac," the stage
manager's voice went on evenly. "All right, Jackson! On you go, Mac!"
Barbara felt her heart jump. Now for it, daddy!
The great curtain mounted majestically and Arthur Mackwayte, deputy
turn, stumped serenely on to the stage.
CHAPTER II.
CAPTAIN STRANGWISE ENTERTAINS A GUEST
It was the slack hour at the Nineveh Hotel. The last groups about the
tea-tables in the Palm Court had broken up, the Tzigane orchestra had
stacked its instruments together on its little platform and gone home,
and a gentle calm rested over the great hotel as the forerunner of the
coming dinner storm.
The pre-dinner hour is the uncomfortable hour of the modern hotel de
luxe. The rooms seem uncomfortably hot, the evening paper palls, it is
too early to dress for dinner, so one sits yawning over the fire, longing
for a fireside of one's own. At least that is how it strikes one from the
bachelor standpoint, and that is how it appeared to affect a man who
was sitting hunched up in a big arm-chair in the vestibule of the
Ninevah Hotel on this winter afternoon.
His posture spoke of utter boredom. He sprawled length in his chair, his
long legs stretched out in front of him, his, eyes half-closed, various
editions of evening papers strewn about the ground at his feet. He was a
tall, well-groomed man, and his lithe, athletic figure looked very well
in its neat uniform.
A pretty little woman who sat at one of the writing desks in the
vestibule glanced at him more once. He was the sort of man that
women look at with interest. He had a long, shrewd, narrow head, the
hair dark and close-cropped, a big, bold, aquiline nose, and a firm

masterful chin, dominated by a determined line of mouth emphasised
by a thin line of moustache. He would have been very handsome but
for his eyes, which, the woman decided as she glanced at him, were set
rather too close together. She thought she would prefer him as he was
now, with his eyes glittering in the fire-light through their long lashes.
But what was most apparent was the magnificent physical fitness of the
man. His was the frame of the pioneer, the man of the earth's open
spaces and uncharted wilds. He looked as hard as nails, and the woman
murmured to herself, as she went on with her note, "On leave from the
front."
Presently, the man stirred, stretched himself and finally sat up. Then he
started, sprang to his feet, and strode easily across the vestibule to the
reception desk. An officer was standing there in a worn uniform, a very
shabby kit-bag by his side, a dirty old Burberry over his arm.
"Okewood!" said the young man and touched the other on the shoulder,
"isn't it Desmond Okewood? By Jove, I am glad to see you!"
The new-comer turned quickly.
"Why, hullo," he said, "if it isn't Maurice Strangwise! But, good
heavens, man, surely I saw your name in the casualty list... missing,
wasn't it?"
"Yep!" replied the other smiling, "that's so! It's a long story and it'll
keep! But tell me about yourself... this," he kicked the kit-bag with the
toe of his boot, looks like a little leave! Just in from France?"
He smiled again, baring his firm, white teeth, and looking at him
Desmond suddenly remembered, as one recalls a trifle, his trick of
smiling. It was a frank enough smile but... well, some people smile too
much.
"Got in just now by the leave train," answered Desmond.
"How much leave have you got?" asked Strangwise.

"Well," said the other, "it's a funny thing, but I don't know!"
"Say, are they giving unlimited leave over there now?"
Desmond laughed.
"Hardly," he replied. "But the War Office just applied for me to come
over and here I am! What they want me for, whether it's to advise the
War Council or to act as Quartermaster to the Jewish Battalion I can't
tell you! I shan't know until tomorrow morning! In the meantime I'm
going to forget the war for this evening!"
"What