A Hero for Leanda

the credit side. The dangers were equally obvious. The passport offense alone, if discovered, would be enough to jail him. An unsuccessful attempt at rescue might cost him years of freedom. Physical damage to himself could certainly not be ruled out.
    He had reached no decision by the evening, except that it would be foolish to turn the offer down out of hand. Much would depend on this fellow Sophoulis, whom Metaxas, in his dynamic way, was no doubt whisking from some distant part of the globe. If he turned out to be congenial, it would be hard to say “No.”
    The hotel bar was fairly active when Conway went down at a quarter to seven. He stood for a moment surveying the tables. At the far end the customers were thinner on the ground; there was a French family, laughing and chattering, an old man in a Basque beret, a girl on her own reading a book, and a younger man, thickset and sturdy looking, also on his own. Conway wondered if he was Sophoulis. At present he seemed to be concentrating on trying to catch the eye of the girl.
    Conway chose a table well away from all of them, and ordered a Dubonnet, and waited. Seven o’clock struck. People drifted in and out. Conway inspected each new arrival closely, but no one approached his table or showed any interest in him. Five past seven. Ten past. For once, Metaxas’ machinelike arrangements seemed to have gone awry. Perhaps he hadn’t been able to get hold of his man— but in that case surely he would have sent a message? Seven-fifteen. Conway continued to watch and wait. Presently the young man abandoned his attempts to pick up the girl, and left. Almost at once, the girl closed her book and came over to Conway ’s table.
    “Good evening,” she said. “Are you Mr. Michael Conway?”
    “I am.”
    “My name is Sophoulis. Leanda Sophoulis. Victor Metaxas sent me.”
    Conway nearly dropped his glass. “Oh— no !”
    “I was afraid it might be rather a shock.... Do you mind if I join you?” Her English was accentless and perfect.
    Mechanically, Conway waved her to a chair. “Metaxas must be out of his mind!”
    “He’s not usually thought to be,” the girl said. “Most people think he’s extremely clever.”
    “He may be a clever financier, but this is positively schoolboyish.... He’s just a frustrated romantic.”
    “He thinks I should make a suitable companion for you. So do I .”
    “But it’s absurd... Conway broke off, studying her. She was small, almost fragile to look at, but exquisitely shaped. Her little head was set in a halo of smooth black hair. Her face was a delicate miniature, with beautifully marked eyebrows and long lashes. Her dark, spirited eyes, set slightly on the slant, matched the resolution of her small chin. She was , Conway had to admit, a most unusual-looking girl. He put her age at twenty-three or twenty-four.
    “Who are you, anyway?” he said. “How do you come into this?”
    “I work for Victor. I help with his propaganda—I have an office in Paris . He rang me there last night, and I flew in today.”
    Conway grinned. “Well, now you’ll have to fly out again! You surely don’t expect me to take this idea seriously?”
    “Why not?”
    “I can think of a dozen reasons.... Have you ever been in a small boat at sea?”
    “No, but you told Victor it wasn’t necessary for your crew to have expert knowledge. I’m certain I could learn to steer. Don’t forget we’re a seafaring people in Spyros.”
    “Have you the slightest idea what it’s like to make an ocean passage in a small yacht?”
    “I imagine it can be very uncomfortable .“
    “Uncomfortable! It can be absolute hell. Rough, tough-terrifying. Until you’ve tried it, you can have no conception. For days on end you get tossed about like a cork. You can’t eat properly, you can’t sleep properly.... There are times when you almost wish you were dead.”
    “ You seem to like it, Mr. Conway.”
    “I like it and I hate it—but at least I’m used to it. You’re not.”
    “I’ve read of women who got used to it, and did very well.”
    “Maybe, but you’re not the type. You’re a very attractive girl, Miss Sophoulis, and I’d be happy to take you dancing any time. But sailing...” He shook his head. “Look at your dainty hands. After two weeks at sea they’d be so cut and callused you wouldn’t recognize them. Your body would probably be black and blue. You’d be so seasick you’d want to throw yourself overboard. When it was too late,