CHAPTER XXIX
THE LOST CODE
"I'M Milsom," said the man in the doorway again.
His clothes were grimed and dusty, his collar limp and soiled. There were two days' growth of red-grey stubble on his big jaw, and he bore himself like a man who was faint from lack of sleep.
He walked unsteadily to the table and fell into a chair.
"Where is van Heerden?" asked Beale, but Milsom shook his head.
"I left him two hours ago, after a long and unprofitable talk on patriotism," he said, and laughed shortly. "At that time he was making his way back to his house in Southwark."
"Then he is in London—here in London!"
Milsom nodded.
"You won't find him," he said brusquely. "I tell you I've left him after a talk about certain patriotic misgivings on my part—look!"
He lifted his right hand, which hitherto he had kept concealed by his side, and Oliva shut her eyes and felt deathly sick.
"Right index digit and part of the phalanges shot away," said Milsom philosophically. "That was my trigger-finger—but he shot first. Give me a drink!"
They brought him a bottle of wine, and he drank it from a long tumbler in two great breathless gulps.
"You've closed the coast to him," he said, "you shut down your wires and cables, you're watching the roads, but he'll get his message through, if"
"Then he hasn't cabled?" said Beale eagerly. "Milsom, this means liberty for you—liberty and comfort. Tell us the truth, man, help us hold off this horror that van Heerden is loosing on the world and there's no reward too great for you."
Milsom's eyes narrowed.
