“And to what,” he enquired with the tedious irony of ennui, “is one indebted for this unexpected honour on the part of the First Under-Secretary of the British Secret Service?  Or whatever your high-sounding official title is...”

“Oh!” Wertheimer replied lazily—­and knocked out his pipe—­“I merely dropped in to say good-bye.”

Duchemin discovered symptoms of more animation.

“Hello!  Where are you off to?”

“Nowhere—­worse luck!  I mean I’m here to bid you farewell and Godspeed and what not on the eve of your departure from the British Isles.”

“And where, pray, am I going?”

“That’s for you to say.”

Monsieur Duchemin meditated briefly.  “I see,” he announced:  “I’m to have a roving commission.”

“Worse than that:  none at all.”

Duchemin opened his eyes wide.

“‘The wind bloweth where it listeth,’” Wertheimer affirmed.  “How do I know whither you’ll blow, now you’re a free agent again, entirely on your own?  I’ve got no control over your movements.”

“The S. S. has.”

“Never no more.  Didn’t you tender me your resignation a moment ago?  Wasn’t it promptly accepted?”

“Look here:  What the devil——!”

“Well, if you must know,” the Englishman interrupted hastily, “my instructions were to give you your walking papers if you refused to resign.  So your connection with the S. S. is from this hour severed.  And if you ain’t out of England within twenty-four hours, we’ll jolly well deport you.  And that’s that.”

“One perceives one has served England not wisely but too well.”

“Shrewd lad!” Wertheimer laughed.  “You see, old soul, we admire you no end, and we’re determined to save your life.  Word has leaked through from Petrograd that your name has been triple-starred on the Smolny’s Index Expurgatorius.  Karslake’s too.  An honour legitimately earned by your pernicious collaboration in the Vassilyevski bust.  Karslake’s already taken care of, but you’re still in the limelight, and that makes you a public nuisance.  If you linger here much longer the verdict will undoubtedly be:  Violent death at the hands of some person or persons unknown.  So here are passports and a goodish bit of money.  If you run through all of it before this blows over, we’ll find a way, of course, to get more to you.  You understand:  No price too high that buys good riddance of you.  And there will be a destroyer waiting at Portsmouth to-night with instructions to put ashore secretly anywhere you like across the Channel.  After that—­as far as the British Empire is concerned—­your blood be on your own head.”

The other nodded, investigating the envelope which his late chief had handed him, then from his letter of credit and passports looked up with a reminiscent smile.

“It isn’t the first time you’ve vouched for me by this style.  Remember?”

“Well, you’ve earned as fair title to the name of Duchemin as I ever did to that of Wertheimer.”