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"Listeners who are familiar with his popular postscripts will regret to learn that Sir Giles Loeder was killed in the West End of London last night in mysterious circumstances."

The effect of this announcement on the group in general was not marked by any profound sympathy. Someone said, "Poor devil!" and someone else said: "I heard 'im broadcast only last night." Sergeant Roper shook his head. "Too many of these thugs getting busy in the black-out," he muttered. "No news of the case when I left." But to this apathy the Air Force pilot proved an exception.

He took so large a mouthful of hot coffee that he almost choked. Mrs. Ryley helpfully patted him on the back. He thanked her, his eyes streaming. As he had dropped his cigarette, he took out and lighted another. Then, disposing of his nearly boiling coffee in huge gulps until he had swallowed sufficient to justify his departure, with a muttered "Good morning" he walked off.

Michael Corcoran, his distinguished features marked by a puzzled frown, watched the slim blue figure seemingly dissolve into mist. At one moment the man was there, then he began to fade; and before he had reached the corner, he was gone ...