Vindictiveness that could find relief only in action mastered the man.

"Be good enough to take this dictation."

Karslake turned to the table and opened a portfolio of illuminated Spanish
leather.

"Ready, sir," he said, with pencil poised.

_"To Michael Lanyard, Intelligence Division, the War Office, Whitehall.
Sir: Your daughter Sofia is now with me. Permit me to suggest that, in
consideration of this situation, you cease to meddle with my affairs. Your
own intelligence must tell you nothing could be more fatal than an attempt
to communicate with her._"

"Sign on the typewriter with the initial _V_."

"Yes, sir."

"Type it on plain paper, use a plain envelope, be sure that neither has a
watermark, and get it off to-night without fail. Take a taxi to St. Pancras
station and post it there. If you make haste you can get it in a pillar-box
before the last collection."

"I shan't lose a minute, sir."

Karslake straightened up, folding the paper, and made for the door.

"One moment, Karslake.... This man, Nogam: where did you pick him up?"