He took his cigarette-case out of his pocket, carefully selected a cigarette, thrust it between his lips and lighted it. All the while Naniescu had remained thoughtful. "You may be right," he said finally. His was not an analytical mind; he was quite content to accept de Kervoisin's explanation of the mystery that had vaguely puzzled him; and, anyway, he did not care. Whatever motive animated the mysterious spy, the man was very useful, and in the matter of Philip Imrey and Anna Heves and of the obstinate lady journalist he had had one or two brilliant ideas.
De Kervoisin smoked on in silence for awhile, then he said:
"Our friend does not seem to be coming. I hope there has been no hitch."
"There could be no hitch," Naniescu asserted. "But it is two hours' drive to Kis-Imre and two hours back here. Will you wait a moment?" he went on, and rose to his feet. "I'll see if they've any news downstairs in the office. I told Number Ten to telephone from Kis-Imre when he got there."
Downstairs in the office they had nothing definite to report. No message had come through from Kis-Imre. But even whilst Naniescu was storming and fuming, blaming his subordinates, who obviously were not responsible for the delay, a man wrapped, despite the heat, in a huge stained and worn military coat, and wearing a soiled képi, crossed the courtyard from the direction of the entrance gates towards the principal staircase of the house. Naniescu saw him from the window and ran out into the hall. He met the man just as he was entering the house, and at once greeted him with the greatest effusion.
"Is everything all right?" he asked hurriedly.
"All right," the man answered curtly. "Of course."
"Kervoisin is upstairs," Naniescu went on. "Come and tell us all about it."
He ran upstairs two at a time; the man in the military coat followed more slowly.
"Here is Number Ten," Naniescu announced, as he ushered the man into the room where Kervoisin was patiently waiting and smoking cigarettes. Kervoisin rose at once, a word of welcome on his lips. But at sight of the man he paused and frowned, obviously mystified, until gradually his face cleared and he exclaimed:
" Bon Dieu! I should never have known you."
"I do look a disgusting object, don't I?" the man retorted. He shook hands cordially with Kervoisin; then he threw off his heavy coat and sank, obviously exhausted, into a chair.
"A cup of coffee?" Naniescu suggested.
"Thanks!" the other replied.
He drank the coffee, then took a cigarette from the case which de Kervoisin offered him. He looked a regular vagrant, with face and neck stained both with grease paint and with grime, his hands were soiled with motor grease, and his hair hung lank and matted into his eyes. He had what looked like a two weeks' growth of beard on his chin and upper lip, and his clothes-if indeed what he wore could be called clothes-were a mere bundle of rags.
"Number Ten," de Kervoisin said with conviction, "you are an artist. I have seen our friend here," he went on, turning to Naniescu, "in any number of disguises, but never two alike, and every new one a surprise!"
"You flatter me, sir," Number Ten said with an almost imperceptible sneer.
"But I am afraid you must be very tired," de Kervoisin resumed affably. "I told the general last night that he might just as well have sent one of his subordinates on this errand."
"I like to finish my work myself," Number Ten rejoined curtly.
Whereupon Naniescu threw up his hairy, fat hands and exclaimed in wonderment:
"Ils sont impayables, ces Anglais!"
"Then we may take it," de Kervoisin went on, "that the work is finished?"
"Yes, finished," Number Ten replied. "We spotted the car on the road about five kilometres from Cluj. The patrol summoned the driver to stop, but the man had obviously had his orders; he swerved sharply to the right and put on speed to try and rush through, So I shot him."
"Ah! these English," Naniescu exclaimed complacently; "they are wonderful!"
But de Kervoisin only expressed the mildest possible surprise by a very slight lifting of his eyebrows.
"Yourself?" was all he said.
"Yes," the other replied. "The patrol was on the other side of the road, but I guessed what would happen, so I had brought my horse to a halt about two hundred metres higher up."
"And," Naniescu asked blandly, "you killed the chauffeur?"
"Of course," the other sneered. "I was not likely to miss him, was I?"
But Naniescu could only smile, and sigh, and murmur: "Oh, those English! Voyez-moi çà!"
"There were two men in the body of the car," Number Ten continued coolly, "they were dead drunk. Philip Imrey and the girl were on the front seats. I gave my horse in charge of the patrol and took the wheel. We were in Cluj outside the gaol soon after two o'clock. I saw the chief superintendent and gave the three men and the girl in his charge."
"Yes! Yes!" Naniescu broke in glibly, and turned to de Kervoisin, "he had all instructions. Everything was ready. I have seen him since. Philip Imrey and Anna Heves are in separate cells, and the two drunken oafs he dispatched by train to Hódmezö. They did not seem to know what had happened, and it was no use detaining them."
"None whatever," Number Ten said dryly. "They were just drunken oafs, as you say. With the miller and his two sons you will have to deal presently-that is, if your second patrol succeeded in capturing the sons. I couldn't be in two places at once, and they may have crossed the frontier. Anyway, that's your affair, not mine."
"Of course, of course," Naniescu said airily. And de Kervoisin put in rather impatiently:
"What about the car and the dead chauffeur?"
"I drove both out to Kis-Imre," Number Ten replied deliberately. "The best way to let people there know what had happened. The General agreed to it."
"Was that your brilliant idea?"
"Mine!" Number Ten replied curtly.
And suddenly through the paint and the grime a look of almost inhuman cruelty distorted his face: the thin lips drew back tight above the red gums, and the sharp teeth gleamed white like those of a wolf. It was the recollection of a note which Naniescu had scribbled at his dictation, and which he, Number Ten, had thrust into the hand of the dead chauffeur for the perusal of an obstinate woman, that brought that wolf-like look into his face. His eyes almost disappeared beneath the strand of false eyebrows and the thick layers of paint upon the lids, and his hands opened out and were clutched again like the talons of a bird of prey.
For the space of a second or two Number Ten looked hideous. De Kervoisin, who was watching him, was conscious of an uncomfortable shudder: Naniescu fortunately was looking another way, and the whole episode was over in a moment; the next, Number Ten was once more leaning back in his chair, looking weary, grimy and ill-tempered, but there was nothing supernatural about him, except perhaps his amazing change from one personality to another.
"How did you get back here?" Kervoisin asked after a moment's pause.