Evening star., 1941-03-22

the old ghost again . the historic
shadow on Brinda's past. And there
was his misgiving for her, too-his
knowledge of the dangers of espio-
nage-of how many unsung heroes
and heroines must die in the exc
cution of its perilous missions, die
secretly and ebscurely, without
glory.
Just what could you do, dear?"
he temporized. Where, for example,
would you start?"
Brinda thought a moment. then
said, Right now, I would start at
the club where we first saw the
spy!"
Sir John smiled.
That club was under special sur
veillance five minutes after I had
your first phone call" he said. by
tomorrow 1 can tell you"
A Menacing Note.
BEG pardon, sir" 1t was Hunt,
| the orderly. Excusing himself, Sir
John conferred with him briefly in
undertoneS. The intelligence chief
turned back to the others. His voice
was strained.
"One of our problems is already
solved, I'm afraid. Could you spare
me a few moments, doctor?"
Macdonald accompanied him
from the room.
What do you suppose it is?"
Brinda asked Dick.
Serious, I imagine. Well prob
/ ably have the answer soon."
AS a matter of fact, they had it
in less than IS minutes. Return
ing alone, Sir John said: "Brinda,
you wonder why I don't want you
engaged in espionage. You prob
ably think I'm unreasonable and un-
just. But sometimes events speak
more eloquently than words. You
remember the name of the agent
who let Ajax get the list of agents
away from her?"
You mean the woman-Mara?"
Sir John produced a bit of folded
paper. With a shudder, Brinda
noted it was bloodStained. Read
it, said the intelligence chief.
Brlnda saw it was crudely printed.
obviously to hide the identity of the
writer. She read: Let this be a
warning to all your British Mata
Haris!"
That name-Mata Hari-again!
Brlnda looked at Sir John WONDER
ingly, beWildered.
"A warning?" she said. How
a Warning?"
A Trunk of Horror.
Simply this my dear" said Sir
John. That note came out of a
trunk which was left at our door
While we were all talking in this
room a short while ago. The trunk
also contained something else
something very sad and pitiable-
the body of young woman. She
had been murdered, as perhaps she
deserved to be, for she was a trail
tress, indifferent to whether her
treachery cost the lives of others
l imagine you have already guessed
her identity. In Intelligence, we
called her Mara"
There were 10 men in the room.
None could be said to resemble
another. except for their possessing
an Identical look of hard competence
and physical readiness. There was
a certain kinship in the set of their
mouths, too; they were tight and
compressed, as if the owners were
under constant and severe nervous
pressure. 1t was look like that
worn by courageous invalids, and it
lent their faces the same quality of
strained sensitivity.
Actually, these men were not sem
sitive. They could not afford to be
They were the pick of the Nazi
espionage machine, operating in
daily danger of exposure and death.
Ihey were here, in this windowless
room, buried three stories deep be-
meath the heart of London. to re-
celve new orders from their Gau-
lelter-orders that would subject
tnem-and otherS-to new peril.
Many such meetings and orders had
bred that look Of suffering endured
OF patience and self-control, of a
KIND OF desperate and not wholly
rational heroism.
A door of concrete, like the wall
and lndistinguishable from it when
closed, swung open on invisible
hinges to admit an eleventh man.
The others rose, thrusting out their
arms in stiff salute.
(To be continued.)
Distributed by King Features Syndicate.