"I am a proof to the contrary," Bellamy declared grimly. "Abroad,
I run always the risk of being dubbed a spy and treated like one.
At home, I am simply the head of the A2 Branch of the Secret Service.
Here come our drinks."

Laverick raised his whiskey and soda to his lips mechanically.

"Here's luck!" he exclaimed. "Now go on, Bellamy," he continued.
"The waiter can't overhear."

Bellamy smiled.

"Tim is one of the few persons in the place," he said, "whom one can
trust. As a matter of fact, he has been very useful to me more than
once. Now listen to me attentively, Laverick. I am going to speak
to you as one man to another."

Laverick nodded.

"I am ready," he said.

"Last Monday," Bellamy went on, leaning forward and speaking in a
soft but very distinct undertone, "a man was murdered late at night
in the heart of the city - within one hundred yards of the Stock
Exchange. The papers called it a mysterious murder. No one knows
who the man was, or who committed the crime, or why. You and I,
Laverick, both know a little more than the rest of the world."

"Well?"