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evenings of Wednesday the 25th or Thursday the 26th, notice anything or anyone unusual?”

The charwoman shook her head. “Nothin’, bar Frau Kronk speaking civil for once, which

is a nine days’ wonder I’m sure, never having known it happen—”

“Who is Frau Kronk?”

“The woman who does the rooms at the end of this passage.”

“Does she come in here?”

“What? Into my rooms? To see if I done ’em properly like? Not-something-likely. Know

what I’d do to her if she did?”

Before Klaus could stop her, she told him. He shuddered, mopped his brow, and tried

again.

“What I want to know is this. Did you, or did you not, see anything or anyone unusual in

this room on the two nights I have mentioned?”

She paused for thought. “No, bar the electricians makin’ even more mess than usual.”

“Electricians?”

“Putting in wires for a ‘lectric fire in ‘ere for fear Lord High What’s-’is-name gets cold

toes, pore dear.”

“Speak civilly of your superiors or you will regret it. Anything else?”

“Ho, speak civil—”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“Go. Get out. Hop it. Buzz off, and don’t come back. Merciful heavens,” said poor

Lehmann, wiping his forehead, “I didn’t know there were such women. What a—well, never

mind. Now, about those electricians.”

Upon inquiry it transpired that Herr Schwegmann had successfully applied to have an

electric fire installed in his office, and the work was being done by two electricians. One was a

permanent employee of the War Office who looked after the lighting and was absolutely above

suspicion, the other had been sent by the firm supplying the electric fire in question. It was the

duty of the War Office employee not only to assist the other man technically as might be

required, but also to keep watch on him to see that he did not do anything irregular or pry into

what did not concern him. The stranger was not to be left alone for a moment within the sacred

precincts.

“Oh,” said Lehmann. “Sounds all right, doesn’t it? Can I see these two fellows?”

“Certainly. Heller is on the premises, I’ll send him in to you. The other shall be sent for.”

“No,” said Lehmann thoughtfully, “don’t send for him yet, I’d like to talk to Heller first.

Does he know there’s anything missing?”

“I shouldn’t think so, but I should hate to swear to it. The whole affair has been treated as

very secret and confidential, but you’ve no idea how news flies round in a big office like this. No

one, of course, ever talks, but you’d think the walls ooze it out. Most extraordinary.”

“I expect so. Let me have the other fellow’s name and address, will you? Thanks, now if I

might see Heller?”

Heller came in, a capable-looking workman with an honest face. “Tell me,” said

Lehmann, “you were working in Herr Schwegmann’s room on the second floor on Wednesday

and Thursday nights this week, were you not?”

“Yes, sir. We was puttin’ in an electric fire, and as there was no points near the floor we

was takin’ out the skirtin’-boards and runnin’ the wire behind them. We’ve done now, sir.”

“So I see, and a very neat job too. Are there any more jobs like that to be done just now?”

“Yes, sir, Herr Britz, on the floor above, wanted another put in his room, so it seemed

best to do both jobs at once while Hauser was still with us. We start up there to-night.”

“Who’s Hauser?”

“The man the Elektrische Gesellschaft sent with their fittin’s. They won’t guarantee ‘less

their own people fit them.”

“I see. Now tell me, was there any trouble of any sort on either Wednesday or Thursday

night? Anything unusual?”

“No, sir. Excuse me, might I ask if there’s anythin’ gone wrong?”

“There is a little trouble, but it is in no way connected with you. I have to question

everyone who was in these rooms then, but there is nothing for you to fear.”

“Thank you, sir. No, nothing went wrong bar the fuse blowing. That’s the second time

that fuse has gone in three days, there’s a short somewheres on this floor. Devil of a job—beg

pardon, sir—awkward job to find a short sometimes. Might be anywhere in the circuit.”

“What happened then?”

“I reported it, sir, and the firm who did the wirin’ must come and look for it. I haven’t the

instruments; besides, it comes under their guarantee.”

“Yes, exactly. What happened on Thursday night—was it Thursday night? The night

before, then, when the fuse went?”

“All these lights went out and we was left in the dark. I says—well, I won’t tell you what

I says, but I told Hauser it was that fuse again and he’d better hang on while I went and replaced

it. So he said all right and off I went.”

“Leaving him alone in the dark?”

“Yes, sir. I had a torch, he hadn’t.”

“How long were you away?”

“Quarter of an hour, sir, quite. You see, there was no fuse wire in the box on this floor,

I’d used it up when it blew before. So I had to go down to my store in the basement to get it and

then fit it in. Took some time, all that.”

“Of course. What was Hauser doing when you came back?”

“Nothin”. Just sittin’ where I’d left him. Strictly speakin’, I shouldn’t have left him

accordin’ to the rules. I ought to have took him all round with me trailin’ about after fuse wire,

but who would?”

“Exactly, who would? Especially as he was all in the dark. How did you know he hadn’t

a torch?”

“He said so, sir.”

“I see. Thank you, Heller, that’ll do.”

Otto Hauser, the Elektrische Gesellschaft’s fitter, had a room in a small house in the

poorer quarter of Berlin, and while he was out that night putting in the second electric fire for the

chilly Herr Britz, there came two callers to his lodgings. A woman opened the door, asking who

was there, but shrank back into the passage when she got the answer, “Police.”

“Which is Hauser’s room?” asked Lehmann.

“First back.”

“Stay there till I come down again. Come with me, Muller.”

They went upstairs and Lehmann turned the door-handle.

“Locked,” he said. “Open this door, Muller.”

Muller bent over the keyhole, there came a few clicking sounds, and the door opened.

Inside the room the only locked receptacle was a suitcase under the bed. “Muller!” and the suit-

case also opened.

“Stand outside the door, will you, to make sure no one comes near,’” said Lehmann, and

started on the suit-case as soon as he was alone. There was a flat parcel at the bottom.

“This is too easy,” murmured Lehmann, untying the string. “Either this fellow’s a

complete novice, or this is only a photo of his best girl, or some poisonous reptile will leap out

and bite me and I shall have only time to utter a hoarse, strangled cry before I—ah!”

He drew out a War Office folder containing some correspondence, two or three pages of

close typescript and half a dozen engineer’s drawings of a globular object. Under these there was

a neatly written copy of the typing and four unfinished tracings of the drawings. There was also

some spare tracing-paper, enough to finish the job.

“I see,” said Lehmann. “We make a copy and then replace the original after having, as I

suspect, arranged another short in the War Office electric wiring. Quite good so far, Otto, but

you do want some hints about putting your work tidily away. Since there isn’t a chimney I

should have looked for a loose board under the carpet, Otto, and I think somehow I should have

found one. By this means, Otto, my boy, I should continue to live longer than you look like

doing.”

He replaced the papers precisely as they were in the packet, tied the string with the same

knots and repacked the suit-case.

“I hate to interrupt an artist in the middle of a master-piece, and really, Otto, you do copy

quite nicely. So I think you shall be permitted to finish it before I gather you in. I should think

you’d do the other drawings to-morrow.”

Lehmann opened the door and told Muller to relock the case. “There’s nothing here yet,”

he said, “but I might want to have another look tomorrow. I’m not quite satisfied somehow. Lock

the door while I go and speak to the lady of the house.”

He went downstairs to find the woman still standing exactly where he had left her.

“What’s your name?” and she told him.

“You know who we are, don’t you?”

“Police,” she whispered.

“That’s right. Why are you frightened by the police?”

“I’m not.”

“I think you are. Now, listen. No one has been here to-night, not even the police, and no

one has been anywhere near your lodger’s room. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes.”

“If you forget all about the police I will forget about you, but if your lodger hears one

word, one hint, about this, I shall remember you at once and come back to see why you are so

frightened of the police. Then I shall find that out too, and you wouldn’t like that, would you?”

She did not answer, but Lehmann appeared to be satisfied, for he nodded at her and went

out with Muller, shutting the door behind them. On the following night Otto Hauser was arrested

as he reached home after finishing the second job at the War Office. The missing papers were

found intact in his suit-case, but the Chief of Police made no mention of any copies although he

had searched the premises himself. It is hardly necessary to add that Hauser didn’t mention them,

either.

The Chief of Police went home that night with the uplifted heart which rewards a duty

well done; before he went to his office in the morning he wrote out a brief message and took it

along to Reck’s room.

“Wake up and take notice,” he said. “Half-past eight of a lovely summer’s morning and

you’re still snoring? Wake up.” He threw the curtains back, pulled up the blinds and flung both

windows wide open. “My hat, what a fug. I don’t wonder you’re always thirsty.”

“Oh, go away,” said Reck indistinctly, because he was burying his face in the pillow.

“Can’t a man have a little peace without your bursting in at dawn with your horrible League of

Youth ideas about air and sun and all that rot? You’ll be expecting me to take cold baths next.”

“Couldn’t be done,” said Hambledon unkindly. “When you hopped in there’d be a loud

fizz and the water would boil. Now then, Reck, that’s enough joking. I want this message coded

and sent off to-night.”

“One of these nights,” said Reck defiantly, “one of those extra superchromium-plated

American cars with a wireless set in them will come cruising down this street at 3 a.m. full of

bright young things on their way home from a party, and when they find they’re completely

deafened by a spark transmitter at close range somebody will tell somebody about it. Then

somebody will begin to think, and one day somebody will come—”

“ ‘My heart is sair,’” hummed Tommy Hambledon, “ ‘I daurna tell, my heart is sair for

somebody.’”

“Yes,” said Reck bitterly, “and the last somebody will probably be me. But you’d better

be careful of me, you know.”

“Why?”

“Because the code isn’t written down and I’ve no intention of writing it. You won’t kill

the goose that lays the golden—”

“Pips. Cheer up, old goose, I’ll look after you.”

The message ran: “Agent carrying current number La Vie Parisienne and examining

death of Charlemagne Kaisersaal Aachen Town Hall Monday Sept. 1st at 3 p.m. will exchange

copy with friendly tourist to advantage.”

Ginsberg, ex-trunk-maker’s assistant, was justly proud of the fact that he was sometimes

selected to do a little job for German Intelligence, though he was only an undistinguished

member of the S.A. Usually the work consisted only of secreting papers in travellers’ luggage for

transmission to our clever agents in foreign countries, but this time it was different and rather

more exciting. He was actually to go and meet someone, and give him a copy of a highly

coloured French comic paper in exchange for a similar one which the stranger would be carrying.

There was something a little unusual about Ginsberg’s copy because the pages wouldn’t open,

but he was told he could read the one he would receive in exchange. Aachen Town Hall; though

he lived in Aachen he had never entered that building. A big room called the Kaisersaal with

pictures on the walls, one of a king dying.

Ginsberg stared at the frescoes with round eyes, very fine pictures no doubt, but hardly in

his line, and a stranger with a colorful periodical under his arm seemed entertained by the

German’s puzzled stare.

“Wonderful works, aren’t they?” said the stranger.

“I suppose so,” said Ginsberg. “I was told they was worth seein’, so I came.”

“Do you like them now you’ve seen them?”

“Very fine, no doubt, but I must say I like somethin’ a bit more lively, myself.”

“Something more like this,” said the stranger with a laugh, indicating his paper. “I see

you’ve got one too.”

“Yes,” said Ginsberg, “but mine’s an old one, I had it given me. I expect you’ve seen it.”

“Let’s look. No, I haven’t. I’ve done with this, would you care to have it?”

“Let’s swap, then, if you’d care to?”

So the affair was neatly arranged, and Ginsberg walked out of the Town Hall naturally

pleased with himself. He was, therefore, proportionately horrified when on returning to barracks