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name of Conway Carruthers would arouse both suspicion and counter-productive fear.
    He took out his passport and examined it.
    Everything was in order. But for the name it might have been his own. He smiled grimly at the idea of the worthy Professor Barstow embarking on so hazardous an undertaking. It was almost as amusing as the picture of Groom confiding in Conway Carruthers of the Secret Service under the impressionthat he was a harmless scientist. Little did the arms-maker know what that mistake would cost him.
    He rang for the waiter and ordered an
aperitif
.
    He had already decided to profit by Groom’s blunder by accepting the offer made to him on behalf of Cator & Bliss. The plan had many advantages. As Groom’s ally, he would, for instance, have access to that gentleman’s secret sources of information in Zovgorod. In any case, there was nothing to be gained by showing his hand at this stage. Up to a point, his programme coincided with Groom’s. Both of them wanted Kassen’s secret; both wished to prevent the manufacture of the Kassen atomic bomb in Ixania. What happened when those objectives were reached was another problem.
    He wished now that he had had time to find out the name of the Ixanian representative before he left England. He had already made up his mind to ask his friend, André Durand, at the Paris
Sûreté
for information about Groom. Durand might also have been able to help him on the subject of the other.
    Where a plan of campaign was concerned, Conway Carruthers always preferred the simple and positive to the ingenious and problematical. His adventures had taught him that where human motives were at work anticipation was a dangerous thing. True, the unexpected happened with almost monotonous regularity, but anticipation led to a game of “double-bluff” with chance in which the odds were all against the human player. Tortuous-minded enemies credited him with superhuman cunning. In reality, it was their own cunning that defeated them.
    It would be too late when he arrived in Paris to do anything but find an hotel. In the morning he would see Durand at the
Sûreté
and afterwards, armed with information, pay his momentous visit to Groom at the Ritz. Until then, speculation was both unprofitable and dangerous. Having taken thisdecision he rose, finished his drink, and made his way to the restaurant car.
    He chose a seat at the end of the car from which he could see the other diners and ordered a
Sole Meunière
with a light French white wine. Then he sat back and watched his fellow-passengers.
    The train was now travelling fast. The heavy window curtains swung uncertainly in the shaded amber light of the tables. The jangle of cutlery and the tinkle of glass formed a background to the rhythmic thud of the wheels. The warm scent of cigar smoke hung in the air. Unreality brooded over the scene. It was theatrical.
Act One: the stage is empty when the curtain rises. There is a fire glowing in the hearth. A single lamp sheds a soft light on the scene. Heavy shadows lurk in the corners of the room. There is silence for a moment, then the voices of people approaching are heard
. Only
this
stage wasn’t empty; the people were there, rows of them; but with the same remote quality in the murmur of their voices and their flickering movement.
    Facing Carruthers on the opposite side of the gangway, a fat man was attempting with stolid lack of success to combat the motion of the train and transfer soup from his plate to his stomach. Beyond him, a wizened little fellow who looked like a chartered accountant was eating oysters and reading the
Times
. A man and a woman, their heads bent forward across their table, were talking rapidly in what sounded like Russian. An elderly Englishwoman was drinking tea. All different, yet with one common denominator—they were all eating and drinking. It robbed them of their individuality. In the shaded amber light, with the jangle of cutlery and the tinkle of glasses, they