CHAPTER VIII

THE TOP FLAT At eight o’clock, not many hours after they had gone to bed, Desmond appeared in his brother’s room. “You’ve got to get dressed at once,” he announced. “We’re off to London!” “Oh, I say!” protested Francis, rubbing sleepy eyes. “One of the confidential typists at the Air Ministry has been murdered . . .” “But what . . . why . . .?” “I know nothing about it except that Alec Bannington, the Chief of the Air Staff, has been on to me on the telephone in the most fearful state. I promised to go up and see h…