Cresswell and Aaron Rodd were dining with Captain Brinnen and his sister at a corner table in the Milan Restaurant. Harvey Grimm had once more left them for an unknown destination, and they were all aware that the period of his absence would be this time more than ever one of strain. As though by general consent, however, the conversation did not touch once upon personal matters. They spoke a good deal of the war. Brinnen himself was roused by sundry reflections into a momentary bitterness, an expression of that peculiar irritation common to many of his country-people, notwithstanding their underlying gratitude.  
"You people in England," he declared, "you have no perceptions, no brains with which to combat a perfectly-developed system of espionage; nothing but an infinite complacency, an infinite stupidity. The people who hate you walk in your midst, unharmed. Even if they are pointed out, your officials shrug their shoulders and smile in a superior fashion. 'They can do us no harm,' they assure you. 'There are reasons why we prefer to leave them alone.' And you are at war, you people! Ah, if only you would realise it!"
 
"You are quite right," Aaron Rodd admitted. "We have grown too accustomed to look upon espionage and secret service as the bonne bouche of the novelist. I suppose they do exist."
 
"They not only exist," Brinnen continued, "but they are becoming a very important factor in the progress of the war. Look at this room. Did you ever see a more cosmopolitan gathering! There are Belgians, Russians, Americans. The two young men who have just come in are Roumanians, over here no one knows why. This, however, I could tell you. If England takes no heed of their presence, Germany does. They will be watched by Germany until they leave, and, for all your army of censors, Germany will know, day by day, just what they do. And, even nearer to us, I could give your Secret Service a very useful piece of advice concerning the young man at the third table from here, with the lady in white spangles."
 
Aaron Rodd and the poet both glanced cautiously in the direction indicated. A tall, clean-shaven young man, dark, with big black eyes, a mass of sleekly-brushed black hair and rather puffy cheeks, good-looking in a stagy sort of way, was entertaining an artistically decorated young ornament of the musical comedy stage.
 
"You know him, perhaps?" Brinnen enquired.
 
Both men shook their heads.
 
"He is always about here," Cresswell remarked, "generally in the bar."
 
"He is an American actor," Brinnen continued. "His name on the programmes is Jack Lovejoy. His real name is Karl Festonheim, and he was born in Cologne. His father and his grandfather, his mother and his grandmother, were Germans. He married a German wife—a negligible affair, perhaps, as the matrimonial arrangements of those sort of people are inclined to be, but still it shows his tendencies. The man, like many thousands of others, calls himself an American because he went there as a boy and has lived there ever since. Yet every relative he has lives in Germany, every spark of real feeling such a person may happen to possess, is German, he eats like a German, he lives like a German, he even talks like one. Yet that young man has no difficulty about passports. He can live in London, listen to the secret voices of your nation, and make his way unhindered and unharmed over to Germany whenever he chooses."
 
"There are, of course, many technical difficulties," Aaron Rodd pointed out, "in dealing with naturalised Americans, whatever the country of their birth."
 
"You are very punctilious over here," Captain Brinnen observed, with fine sarcasm. "However, I give that young man as an instance because I know that certain information concerning the whereabouts of three of your cruisers, earlier in the war, was conveyed by him to the German Admiralty. I cannot prove this, but I know it. I also know that while, if you speak to him, he will tell you that he is out of a job, that the war has played the deuce with musical comedy, he has refused three parts within the last month, on some pretext or another, because he is better occupied."
 
Stephen Cresswell sat up in his place. An expectant light shone in his eyes.
 
"An adventure!" he murmured.
 
"If you, sir," Brinnen remarked, "could develop the sagacity of a French or German Secret Service man, and fasten upon the life of that young man, you would probably gain the adventure which you seek."
 
"I am the very man for the task," the poet declared eagerly. "I have stuck like a leech to my friend Aaron Rodd here, in the hopes of travelling with him a little way into the land where adventures are as plentiful as gooseberries. The only one to which he has introduced me has been highly satisfactory, in its way," he declared, bowing to Henriette, "and the remembrance of it will be a happiness to me all my life, but one cannot live on one adventure alone. I am eager for more. I claim that young man, Rodd, do you hear? I claim him."
 
"He is yours," the other acquiesced grimly. "Poor fellow! One is almost inclined to pity him."
 
Cresswell smiled in superior fashion.
 
"My dear fellow," he said, "you are, without doubt, a man of energy and brains, but what you lack is initiative. Initiative is the gift vouchsafed to genius. I have genius, therefore I have initiative. To you, the affair connected with this young man appears at present to be as impenetrable as a blank wall. You would not know where to start. Wait. You shall watch my methods."
 
"In the meantime," Henriette whispered, gazing intently towards the doorway, "behold, Madame de Borria and her recovered necklace!"
 
They all turned their heads. The South American woman was on her way through the room and around her neck flashed the light from her wonderful necklace. Aaron Rodd leaned a little forward in his chair.
 
"She is soon wearing it again," he remarked.
 
Brinnen shrugged his shoulders.
 
"Why not? It was lost only for a few hours. Madame had the good sense to follow her husband's advice and to offer that greatest of lures to the educated thief—a reward and no questions asked. Madame deserves to have recovered her necklace—and it becomes her well.... Shall we take our coffee outside?"
 
They all rose to their feet and left the restaurant together. The poet thrust his arm through Brinnen's and led him on one side, talking earnestly. Aaron was left alone for a few minutes with Henriette. They found a corner as far as possible from the strains of the over-persistent band.
 
"It is three months to-day," he reminded her, "since I saw you first in the gardens of the Embankment."
 
"What a memory!" she murmured. "And I, like the very forward person you have since discovered me to be, made tentative overtures to you with the object of discovering whether you were a lawyer not too squeamish about your clients or their business."
 
His face hardened a little.
 
"Are we coming soon," he asked, "to the end of your stock—or rather your brother's stock of jewels?"
 
"Why?" she whispered, looking up at him with slightly contracted eyebrows.
 
"Because I am tired of it," he declared frankly, "tired of it in connection with you, that is to say. I spend whole days, sometimes, in a positive state of terror. Luxury is a small thing compared with freedom and life. You have had over forty thousand pounds now. Why don't you take your grandfather somewhere away into the country? Even if you have to be content with half that sum, you could live on it and be safe. Let your brother go his own way. It isn't really worth while, Henriette."
 
She looked at the point of her slipper carefully for a moment. She wore a perfectly plain black velvet gown, and only a single pearl hanging from a strip of black velvet around her neck. Her fingers were ringless. Even her hair was arranged in the simplest of coils, yet there was no one else in the room quite like her.
 
"Henriette," he went on, leaning over her, "if you don't speak I shall make a fool of myself."
 
She started, and looked timorously into his eyes. Then as quickly she looked away again. Her hands clasped the arms of her chair. She seemed suddenly interested in the orchestra.
 
"Say—what you were going to say," she begged.
 
"You know," he obeyed, almost roughly. "I am nearly forty years old. I have no money except the ten or fifteen thousand pounds I have made by helping to dispose of your stolen jewels, and I'm sick of it all, sick of it because I've found something in life worth living differently for. You know what that is. Leave your brother to live his own life. Bring your grandfather and come away somewhere, Henriette, and marry me. It sounds absurd, doesn't it," he went on, a little wistfully, "but in a way you've been so kind to me. You must have known."
 
She suddenly laid her hand upon his. It was a delightful little gesture.
 
"Please don't say any more just now," she implored. "I shall remember every word that you have said, and I don't think I have ever felt so much like——"
 
"Like what?"
 
"Doing what you ask," she continued quickly. "There! Just now—for a little time—we must think of other things. You see, here comes my brother and Mr. Cresswell. Whatever is Mr. Cresswell going to do? Look!"
 
The American actor and his companion had taken seats almost opposite to them. Suddenly Cresswell left his host's side and crossed the room towards them. With a slight bow he addressed Lovejoy. Brinnen, who had strolled over to where his sister and Aaron Rodd were seated, smiled a little cynically.
 
"What you call, in your expressive language, rather the methods of a bull in a china shop," he observed. "I fancy that we shall see our friend return, a little chastened."
 
"You don't know Stephen," his friend murmured. "He has more confidence than any other man on earth. Look!"
 
A waiter had been summoned to bring a chair. The poet was seated now next the young lady, to whom he had just been introduced. They were all three chatting amiably. A waiter was receiving an order for coffee and liqueurs.
 
"That is what he calls initiative," Henriette whispered.
 
"The first steps are easy," Brinnen remarked, "and, after all, one must remember that Lovejoy is by no means a clever person. He is conceited and bumptious. Well, at any rate we must wish Mr. Cresswell luck."
 
"I was just asking your sister," Aaron said abruptly, "whether we were almost coming to the end of your hidden stores."
 
The young Belgian glanced around for a moment quickly and flicked the ash from his cigarette.
 
"Why?"
 
"Because I am beginning to fear the risk more every day for your sister's sake," Aaron continued steadily. "Our friend Mr. Brodie has made a good many mistakes but he is not an entire fool. Grimm admitted only the other day that he had tracked him down to the very place where he recuts the diamonds—had been within a few feet of them."
 
"Nothing came of it, though," Brinnen observed, frowning.
 
"It may not be so every time," Aaron Rodd persisted. "I was trying to persuade your sister to be content with small things. Your grandfather is very old. Think what the shock would be to him if anything were to happen to either of you. Put what you have left in a safe deposit, if you like, for a time, and start again disposing of them when things have blown over a little."
 
The brother and sister exchanged glances which to Aaron were inexplicable.
 
"What does Mr. Harvey Grimm say about it?" the former asked.
 
"Oh! Grimm will go on till he drops," Aaron Rodd declared. "Adventure, danger, whatever the cost, is the spice of life to him. But he is just a man alone. It's a different thing when a girl like your sister is concerned. It is for her sake that I want to see the thing closed up."
 
Brinnen dropped his eyeglass and rubbed it for a moment with his handkerchief.
 
"You seem to take a great interest in my sister, Mr. Rodd," he said calmly.
 
"I have just asked her to marry me," Aaron Rodd replied bluntly.
 
Brinnen turned slowly around. He was suddenly like his grandfather. His eyebrows were a little uplifted. His expression was the expression of one who listens to some unthinkable thing.
 
"Absurd!" he muttered.
 
"It is nothing of the sort," Aaron Rodd answered simply. "If your sister has been guiltily concerned in your adventurous life, I, too, have turned myself into a receiver of stolen property. We are in the same boat, only I want to get her out of it. I have asked her to marry me and come over to America. We could start life again on what I have."
 
She leaned over suddenly and spoke to her brother in a low tone, and in a language which was strange to Aaron Rodd. His expression changed a little as he listened. Then the waiter appeared with their coffee and liqueurs. When they were served and he had left, Captain Brinnen reopened the subject.
 
"I gather that you yourself, Mr. Rodd," he observed, "have hankerings towards the humdrum life, the life of honesty and the virtues and that sort of thing."
 
"I have tried for many years to make an honest living," Aaron replied shortly. "The only time I ever crossed the line was long ago, when Harvey Grimm and I were in America. It wasn't anything very serious then. Our present transactions have been my only other essay. I come of an old-fashioned New England family, and however one may laugh at their principles and the narrowness of their outlook, I have those principles in my blood, and, frankly, I hate this life. If it's bad for me, it's worse for your sister. I want to take her away."
 
"I will consider what you have said, Mr. Rodd," Brinnen replied. "For the present we will, if you please, abandon the conversation."
 
A little glance of entreaty from Henriette closed Aaron's lips. They spoke of general things for a few moments. Then Captain Brinnen rose to his feet.
 
"I am afraid that I must take my sister away now, Mr. Rodd," he announced. "She has an engagement for this evening. But before we leave," he added, holding out his hand, "whatever I may feel concerning the proposals you have made, I should like once more to express my thanks for your great courage the other night. My sister and I owe you more than we can ever repay."
 
"Your sister," Aaron said, with a boldness which surprised him, "can repay me if she will."
 
She looked into his eyes, and they seemed to him larger and softer than he had ever seen them. There was a little quiver at her lips, too, even though her words were light ones.
 
"You are growing into a courtier, Mr. Rodd," she murmured. "Au revoir!"
 
They passed up the stairs and Aaron sank back in his chair. There was a certain satisfaction mingled even with his disappointment. At least he had spoken his mind. Then the little group on the other side of the way arose, and the poet, catching his eye, beckoned to him in friendly fashion.
 
"This," the poet declared, as Aaron approached, "is my friend Aaron Rodd. Aaron, allow me to present you to a lady whom you have often worshipped from a distance, Miss Pamela Keane."
 
Aaron, who had no idea who Miss Pamela Keane was, bent over her hand and cursed the poet under his breath. The latter, who was thoroughly enjoying himself, laid his hand upon Lovejoy's shoulder.
 
"And also to my friend Mr. Jack Lovejoy," he continued. "Lovejoy is the one man in London who makes me wish that I could write for the musical comedy stage. One has one's limitations, alas!"
 
There followed a few minutes' desultory conversation. Then Miss Pamela Keane picked up a wonderful collection of golden trifles and turned towards the exit.
 
"We shall meet again, Mr. Cresswell," she said, smiling upon him. "Do bring Mr. Rodd with you, if he cares to come. Au revoir!"
 
She turned away, followed by Lovejoy. The poet linked his arm through Aaron's and demanded another liqueur.
 
"You didn't really know the fellow, did you?" Aaron asked curiously.
 
"Not I," he replied, "but, as I have told you many times, I am a born adventurer. I am equal to any situation. Have I ever mentioned that I am also something of a snob?"
 
"I don't seem to remember the confession."
 
"Well, I am. I have an aunt who is the wife of a baronet. I make use of her occasionally. In the days of my more abject poverty I used to go there for a free meal when I had a black coat. She is by way of being a patroness of the arts, entertains all sorts of jumbled up parties. In all probability Mr. Lovejoy has either been asked to one of them or wishes he had. Hence my self-introduction. 'Mr. Lovejoy,' I say in my best manner, 'I believe I had the pleasure of meeting you at my aunt's, Lady Sittingley's?' He hesitates, and I can see that I have him fixed. He hasn't the least intention of ever denying that he was there, although he doesn't know me from Adam. And there you are, you know. It's the natural spirit of the adventurer."
 
"What was that about going on there to-night?" Aaron enquired.
 
"We are both going, my boy," was the cheerful reply. "Miss Pamela Keane is entertaining a few friends to chemin de fer at her flat in Buckingham Gate. I have explained that I do not play, but we are going to look in for a glass of wine and a chat. As a matter of fact, I just want to cast my eye over Lovejoy's friends, do you see?"
 
"There's no need for me to come," Aaron Rodd protested.
 
"There is every need," the poet insisted, watching the arrival of the liqueurs with satisfaction. "I like companionship. I like some one with whom to compare impressions after such a visit as this. You may notice something which has escaped me."
 
Aaron frowned a little wearily.
 
"Captain Brinnen was probably talking quite at random," he remarked. "Lovejoy doesn't seem to me to be the type of man who'd take a serious interest in anything except his own pleasures."
 
"Quite right," the other agreed shrewdly, "but he might reasonably take an interest in the means of procuring those pleasures. And as to our jewel-collecting friend talking at random, I don't believe it. A man with a face and a character like his doesn't chatter. We'll just spruce up here a bit and follow them right along...."
 
 
 
The two men spent the next two hours in entirely different fashion. Stephen Cresswell made a host of new friends with marvellous facility, flirted with many pretty but unnamed ladies, ate paté de foie gras sandwiches and drank champagne as though it were his first meal of the day. Aaron, on the other hand, found the customary stiffness of his manner only intensified by the Bohemianism of his fellow-guests. The women, with their laughing eyes, their frankly flirtatious speeches, their general air of good-fellowship and lack of reserve, seemed to him simply intolerable. Every time he thought of Henriette, he hated his surroundings and longed for the solitude which, notwithstanding his efforts, he was only partially able to achieve. To escape the new acquaintances whom the poet was continually bringing up to him, he even played for an hour. Afterwards, when the rooms became more crowded, he escaped into a corner and sat looking on. It was exactly the sort of gathering he had expected—a good many young ladies from the stage with their escorts, a strong element of the betting fraternity, a theatrical agent or two, and a sprinkling of those nameless people, always well dressed, always mysterious, who seem to pass through life so easily without toiling or spinning. He was just deciding that, so far as the object of their visit was concerned, the evening had been wasted, when Pamela Keane came suddenly across the room and sat down by his side.
 
"I want to talk to you, Mr. Rodd," she said, throwing herself back in a chair and displaying an amazing amount of white silk stocking.
 
"You are very kind," he murmured.
 
"Mr. Cresswell tells me that you are a lawyer?"
 
"That is so," Aaron admitted, a little startled.
 
"Where are your offices?"
 
"Seventeen Manchester Street, Adelphi," he replied, "third floor."
 
"Can I come and see you at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning?"
 
"With pleasure!"
 
"Good! I'll be there. Not a word to Jack, mind. Come and have a glass of champagne."
 
He drank his glass of champagne and watched his companion drink three. Then she floated off to greet some new-comers and Aaron made his escape. The poet called him up in the hall.
 
"The usual sort of crowd here," he remarked, as they left the house. "Pretty hot lot, some of those bookmakers and jockeys, but I didn't see a soul whom I'd ever suspect of getting off his own little run. What about you?"
 
"Come and see me at twelve o'clock to-morrow morning," was all the poet could get out of his companion that night....
 
 
 
Miss Pamela Keane was marvellously punctual. In a blue serge costume straight from Paris, a hat which was a marvel of simplicity, a wonderful veil and a wave of perfume, she swept into Aaron Rodd's room the next morning as eleven o'clock was striking. He handed her the clients' chair, into which she sank, a little breathless.
 
"Say, this is some climb," she remarked. "Don't you have any elevators in your offices on this side?"
 
"Plenty," he assured her. "I have a very small practice and these are out-of-the way premises."
 
She lifted her veil. Her face was thick with powder and her eyes seemed to him artificially brightened. There was some stuff which he didn't understand upon her lashes, and in contradistinction to these, to him, somewhat ghastly allurements, her expression was hard, her tone, as she spoke, almost rasping.
 
"See here, Mr. Rodd," she began, "I have come to talk to you about Jack Lovejoy. Know anything about me?"
 
"Nothing," he confessed.
 
"I don't suppose you've ever seen me on the stage, even?"
 
"Never!"
 
"So much the better. I didn't want to go to one of these know-everybody-and-everything theatrical lawyers, who call you 'my dear' and promise you the earth. Well, I married a millionaire over in the States, and I fixed things so that he couldn't get rid of me without it costing him something. I've got an income of five thousand pounds a year, Mr. Rodd, and though that ain't the earth, it's useful."
 
"Naturally," he assented.
 
"I've done more than I should like to tell you for Jack Lovejoy," she went on. "Of course, we live together, and we're as much married as the law allows. He'd got nothing but what he was earning, and that wasn't much, when I took him up. Now he's got his motor-car and anything he wants. I'm not a changeable woman. I'm older than he is, of course, but I'm barely forty, and all I wanted of Jack was that he should play the game. He's not doing it, Mr. Rodd."
 
The lawyer shrugged his shoulders ever so slightly. The question of Lovejoy's infidelities appeared to him profoundly uninteresting.
 
"I'll tell you how I know," she went on. "We had a little trouble a month ago and I've waited for him to come to me for his cheque since, instead of handing it over. He hasn't been and he's had all the money he wanted. He's getting it from somewhere. What I want to know is where?"
 
Aaron was a little more interested.
 
"Betting? Card playing?" he suggested.
 
She waved her hand scornfully.
 
"I know the firm with whom he does his betting, and he owes them a tidy sum already. And as to card playing, why, any of 'em would clean him out in no time. He hasn't the brains of a rabbit. It's a woman. He goes to see her every day at six o'clock. I've found that out for myself, and I've found out the direction he goes in. For the rest I have come to you."
 
"To me?" Aaron exclaimed, a little startled.
 
"Yes! It's part of your job, ain't it? Supposing it was a divorce I wanted, I should have to go to a lawyer, shouldn't I? I'm not imagining you hang about street corners yourself, but you've got to employ some one to have him watched, and you've got to begin this afternoon. I can give you a start all right from luncheon time. He'll bring me anywhere I say—Milan Grill-room, to-day, at two o'clock. We shall leave there, perhaps, at half-past three, and he'll drive me home. From that point he'll have to be watched. He may come in for an hour or he may not, but it's where he goes to afterwards that I want to know. Will you take this job on, Mr. Rodd?"
 
"With pleasure," he agreed. "It's a little out of my line but I think I can arrange it."
 
"Then that's that," the lady remarked, rising. "I've got to be at my dressmaker's at half-past. Ring me up when you've anything to report."
 
Aaron Rodd bowed his client down the stairs, went back to his office and threw the windows wide open. Then he telephoned for the poet.
 
"I am going to do a disgraceful thing," he told him, upon his arrival. "I'm going to betray a client's confidence."
 
"Would it well out easier with the help of a matutinal?" the poet suggested, with a glance at the clock. "My throat's as dry as a lime-kiln this morning."
 
Aaron shook his head and told the story.
 
"Now get at it," he enjoined, as he bundled him out. "It's your job, not mine, and I have a letter to write...."
 
 
 
The poet, a few days later, paid an afternoon call. He rang the bell of a flat in Northumberland Court, enquired for Mrs. Abrahams, and after a moment's hesitation was shown into a small drawing-room in which half a dozen people were seated. The lady who was evidently a hostess, a large, Jewish-looking woman, rose from her place on the couch and regarded him with mingled distrust and curiosity. The poet, however, who had seen Jack Lovejoy in a corner of the room, was not in the least abashed.
 
"You haven't forgotten me, I hope, Mrs. Abrahams?" he said, bending gallantly over her hesitating hand. "I met you at my aunt's, Lady Sittingley's, and you were kind enough to say that I might come and see you sometime. I ventured to bring you the small offering I promised you—my poems, bound now, I am thankful to say, with a little more dignity than when we last met."
 
Mrs. Abrahams' face cleared slightly but she remained somewhat disturbed.
 
"Of course! You are Mr. Cresswell, aren't you, the poet? I remember the curious stories there were about the beginning of your popularity. You have really brought me that book? How charming of you!"
 
"I have promised myself this pleasure for a long time," Cresswell assured her.
 
"Let me see," she went on, making room for him by her side, "when was it that I met you at your aunt's?"
 
"I have no memory, even for such inspiring events," he confessed ingenuously, "but I think it was about three months ago."
 
She sighed gently.
 
"This terrible war," she murmured, "makes it difficult to remember anything. You will have some tea, Mr. Cresswell? Let me introduce you to Professor David."
 
The poet bowed to his neighbour and glanced around the little circle, winding up with a nod to Lovejoy, who seemed hopelessly out of place. They were, for the most part, a very gloomy and serious little company.
 
"I interrupted an interesting conversation, I am sure," the poet declared genially. "May it not continue?"
 
There was a moment's rather awkward silence and Mrs. Abrahams sighed.
 
"Alas!" she said, "I am afraid there was nothing original about our conversation this afternoon. It was the war—always the war."
 
Cresswell balanced his plate upon his knee, sipped his tea and talked commonplace nonsense for a quarter of an hour. Then he got up to leave.
 
"Coming my way, Lovejoy?" he enquired.
 
The young actor hesitated for a moment and then acquiesced. Mrs. Abrahams bade them both farewell. She extended to neither of them any invitation to return.
 
"Rather a heavy sort of crowd for you, isn't it?" Cresswell asked, as they descended in the lift.
 
"Mrs. Abrahams was kind to me when I first came to London," Lovejoy remarked, a little vaguely. "I promised I'd look in there some day and I happened to be near this afternoon."
 
"Just so," the poet murmured, as they paused at the corner of the street. "So long!"
 
Jack Lovejoy stepped into a taxi and was driven away westwards.
 
Cresswell crossed the road, turned into Whitehall, made his way into a block of public buildings, and after half an hour's delay was shown into the presence of an important-looking gentleman, who bade him take a seat and peered at him doubtfully over the top of his eyeglasses.
 
"Sir Lionel," his visitor began, "I have come to you because I have some information which should be exceedingly valuable to the home branch of the Secret Service."
 
"Young man," the official replied, "you are the fifteenth caller within the last few hours who has brought me information guaranteed to save the Empire."
 
"Lucky number, the fifteenth," the poet remarked cheerfully. "Do you happen to know Mrs. Abrahams of Northumberland Court?"
 
"I know her slightly," Sir Lionel admitted. "She is a friend of several members of the Cabinet."
 
"Why isn't she interned?" Cresswell demanded. "She is a German."
 
"Her husband was born in England."
 
"But she is a red-hot German, all the same," the young man persisted. "I have been making enquiries about her myself and I find that for years before the war she was doing nothing but run down the culture and customs of this country as compared with Germany."
 
The official shrugged his shoulders.
 
"There is no information that I am aware of against Mrs. Abrahams," he said, "and you must remember that she is, as I told you, a friend of several members of the Cabinet. They would not be likely to listen to anything against her."
 
"What a country!" the poet sighed. "What officialdom! What methods of making war!"
 
"Have you anything against Mrs. Abrahams?" Sir Lionel enquired.
 
"I have," was the prompt reply. "I have no proof to offer because I am an unofficial person and I cannot take those steps which are necessary to procure proof, but I can assure you that every afternoon, from four till six, Mrs. Abraham's drawing-room in the Northumberland Court is a bureau for the meeting of various persons whose interests are inimical to this country."
 
"Dear me!" the other exclaimed blandly. "What do they do there?"
 
"I can't tell that," Cresswell admitted. "My idea is that they each bring information of various sorts, which Mrs. Abrahams transmits to Germany."
 
"Isn't that rather an assumption on your part?"
 
"An assumption with a very definite background," the poet persisted, unruffled. "For instance, take this afternoon. Amongst Mrs. Abraham's visitors were Professor David, who has spent half his life in Germany, has stumped this country lecturing on German ideals, and since the war has maintained a sedulous and enigmatic silence. There were also present Mr. Halston, who married a German and has had to resign his seat in Parliament owing to his doubtful sympathies; Jack Lovejoy, the German-American actor; two men, who, from their conversation, are, I gathered, censors; and the Minister of a country whom we all know quite well to be inimical to us. These men meet every afternoon. They aren't there for fun, are they, and it isn't by chance that they all have the same point of view."
 
Sir Lionel stifled what seemed suspiciously like a yawn.
 
"You must forgive me if I seem a little unmoved," he observed, "but we hear so many of these vague stories. The matter shall be looked into, Mr. Cresswell, but I may as well warn you at once that Mrs. Abrahams has several friends in the Cabinet, and they are not likely to countenance any proceedings unfavourable to her."
 
The poet rose from his chair.
 
"Thank you, Sir Lionel," he said humbly. "I begin to realise——"
 
"What?"
 
"That a friend of a Cabinet Minister in this Government can do no wrong," the young man declared, picking up his hat.
 
 
 
Aaron Rodd and the poet lunched together the next day at the Milan. Miss Pamela Keane saw them from the other end of the room, where she was talking to the ma?tre d'h?tel about a table, and at once came over towards them.
 
"Well?" she asked Aaron Rodd.
 
"I have some information already," the latter replied. "I am not in a position to make a definite report, but if it interests you to know it, I do not think that Mr. Lovejoy's afternoon philanderings are of an amorous nature."
 
"Say, do you hear that!" she exclaimed, her face suddenly lightening. "If it interests me to know it! Isn't that exactly what I came to you for? Well, can't you give me an idea what he is up to, then?"
 
"Not at present," Aaron Rodd regretted, "but you might, if you would, help me with another hint."
 
"Get on with it, then," the lady urged. "He may come in at any moment."
 
"Can you tell me in which direction his sympathies lie with regard to the war?"
 
Miss Pamela Keane was for a moment serious. Then she shrugged her shoulders.
 
"Well, you know," she said, "there are a good many of us Americans who think that Great Britain's been asking for trouble for some years back. A little too much of the Lord Almighty, you know. I shouldn't say that Jack was overmuch in sympathy with you Britishers."
 
"That helps," Aaron Rodd admitted. "In two or three days at the most I think I can let you have a report. So far as I can see at present," he added, "I think that it will be satisfactory to you."
 
"Say, you're smarter than you look, Mr. Rodd," she declared, as she turned away with a little nod. "Come round and see me any time."
 
The two men finished their luncheon and walked round to Scotland Yard. Inspector Ditchwater, for whom they enquired, received them with some surprise.
 
"Gentlemen," he said, "this is a most unexpected pleasure."
 
"We have come," Aaron Rodd began, "to lay certain information before you which has come to me professionally, and to ask for your aid. The facts are these. A certain Mrs. Abrahams, who is a German woman by birth, married to an anglicised German Jew, who was naturalised fifteen years ago, is in the habit of receiving a little circle of friends every afternoon. These friends are every one of them of more or less German sympathies, although they some of them occupy public posts in this country. One of them, I have reason to know, is receiving money continually from Mrs. Abrahams. I have no proof of anything, and I am not in a position to proceed far enough in the matter to secure it. The authority of the law is needed. My friend here, Mr. Cresswell, has been to the Home Office and has interviewed Sir Lionel Rastall. He, however, declines to intervene in the matter because Mrs. Abrahams, who is a woman of a great deal of superficial culture and many acquaintances, is a friend of several Cabinet Ministers."
 
"If Sir Lionel declines to interfere," the inspector pointed out, "what can we do?"
 
"Get on to the track and find some proof," Aaron Rodd suggested. "There isn't any one can stop you then from behaving in a commonsense manner."
 
"And lose our promotion and get snubbed for our pains," the detective remarked. "I don't care much about the job, Mr. Rodd, thanking you all the same. I don't mind telling you that Mrs. Abrahams was on the list of suspected persons kept here, and has been crossed off at the special instructions of a highly-placed personage. It isn't my business to interfere with her or her doings."
 
The two visitors withdrew, a little perplexed. The poet, however, was undaunted.
 
"My friend," he said, "this was to be my adventure and I tell you I've a trump card left yet. Come along."
 
They paid one more call at a large and imposing establishment no great distance away. After a wait of nearly an hour, an orderly came in.
 
"The Chief will see you and your friend, Mr. Cresswell," he announced. "Be as quick as you can, please."
 
The poet, who loved words, showed that he knew how to dispense with them. He shook hands with the somewhat grizzled-looking, handsome soldier who welcomed them.
 
"This is my friend Mr. Rodd, a solicitor," he said. "Sir Horace, I have put my hand by accident upon a nest of conspiracy within a quarter of a mile from here. The Home Office or the police won't touch it because the woman chiefly concerned is persona grata with Cabinet Ministers. Will you take it on?"
 
"I will," Sir Horace promised, "if there's anything in it. Get on with your information."
 
"The woman's name is Abrahams, and she has a flat in the Northumberland Court," the poet continued. "I followed a young man there the other afternoon, who is born a German but calls himself an American. Mrs. Abrahams was entertaining a small party of friends, every one of whom is of German sympathies, although two are employed as censors by His Majesty's Government. The young man I followed is drawing money from her nearly every week, and spends most of his spare time motoring round London with one of the new naval air defence commanders."
 
"That all?"
 
"Pretty well," the poet admitted, "but there's espionage work going on there every afternoon."'
 
"Sounds probable," the other agreed. "Now what do you want me to do? I can't raid the place without more information."
 
"Lend me two men and I'll take the risk of something turning up," the poet begged.
 
Sir Horace scribbled a few lines on a piece of paper.
 
"Get out with you," he said. "My regards to your aunt. Show this to the orderly in Room C and he'll give you a couple of plainclothes policemen."
 
The poet gripped Aaron Rodd's arm triumphantly as they stepped outside.
 
"A man!" he exclaimed. "A man at last!" ...
 
It was two days before anything fresh happened. Then, about half-past five in the afternoon, Aaron Rodd and the poet, who had wandered round by the front of the Northumberland Court to see that their watchers were in position, almost ran into the arms of a huge, roughly dressed man, with close-cropped brown beard, a man who looked ill-at-ease in his clothes and walked with a rolling gait.
 
"My God!" the poet muttered. "It's the Dutchman! Come on, Aaron."
 
They turned round and followed him at a short distance. He entered the Northumberland Court. They followed him, a few minutes later, and Cresswell addressed the hall-porter, whom he knew slightly.
 
"My name's Cresswell," he said. "I'm on a Government job. Tell me what flat that man asked for who has just gone in?"
 
"Number sixty-seven, sir," the man replied—"Mrs. Abrahams'."
 
"Seen him here before?"
 
"He comes about once a week, sir, generally on a Sunday."
 
"I shan't move from here," Cresswell declared, turning to his companion. "I shall hold on to that chap myself if he comes out before we can get the men together. Will you hurry, Aaron? There's one at the corner of Parliament Street."
 
"And the other's here," a quiet voice said behind. "It's all right, Mr. Cresswell. I've sent for Jimmy. I saw that man go in. Know who he is?"
 
"I do that," the poet assented.
 
"His ship's been searched twice," the inspector went on. "We had a Secret Service man on board the last time they crossed. Nothing was discovered, but he's under suspicion. When I saw him turn in here, I thought things might be coming our way."
 
"Inspector," Cresswell asked eagerly, "your powers will allow you to hold him, won't they?"
 
"I think I'll have to stretch them a bit, sir," the man replied. "We'll wait till he comes out. You'd better let the hall-porter get an extra constable. This Dutchman is a pretty difficult customer to tackle."
 
The hall-porter, who had been divided between curiosity and nervousness, departed with alacrity. The men spread themselves out a little. The poet and Aaron Rodd affected great interest in the lighting of cigarettes. A small boy in buttons eyed them with immense inquisitiveness. There was something up! He whispered the news to the lift-boy, who had strolled out for a breath of fresh air. A ripple of electrical interest thrilled the group. The hall-porter returned, an unwilling constable in the rear.
 
"What's this?" he enquired of the elder of the two plain-clothes men. "I can't leave my beat unless there's a charge."
 
The man showed him a badge. The constable saluted.
 
"Wait just outside," the former whispered. The hall-porter suddenly thrust his head through the swing doors.
 
"Party you're enquiring for, sir, has just come out of number two," he announced. "He's stepping into a taxi."
 
There was a rush for the door, which the poet led. The taxicab was disappearing round the corner as they reached the entrance of the next block of flats. The hall-porter, still dangling his whistle, watched their approach with amazement.
 
"What address—that taxi?" the inspector asked quickly.
 
"Monico's, Shaftesbury Avenue."
 
"Another taxi, quick!"
 
The man blew his whistle. A taxicab from the rank obeyed the summons.
 
"The fellow can't suspect anything if he's really gone to the Monico," the inspector observed.
 
They all crowded into the vehicle. In a few minutes they were at the café. The poet gave a little sigh of relief as he peered eagerly around. Somehow or other, he felt that this was his own special adventure and that the onus of its success rested upon him. At a table a little way in the room the Dutchman was seated, with a huge tumbler of what seemed to be brandy and water in front of him. He was in the act of striking a match to light a cigar which was already in the corner of his mouth. Suddenly his eyes fell upon the poet. A vague sense of recognition, coupled with a premonition of danger, seemed to oppress him. His frame seemed to grow tenser. Even underneath his clothes one could fancy that his muscles were stiffening. He watched the four men approach, and those few of the neighbouring loungers who chanced to be looking that way, held their breaths. The atmosphere around seemed to have become electric. The inspector stood by the Dutchman's table. Although he was not in uniform, his official bearing was unmistakable.
 
"I want you, my man," he said. "You must come with me to the police-station."
 
"Why?"
 
"I am acting under special orders," the inspector told him. "I can satisfy you as to my authority. The thing is, are you coming quietly?"
 
Apparently the Dutchman was not, for pandemonium ensued. The inspector was no light-weight and he was on guard, but his adversary's rush was irresistible. He went crashing over against an opposite table and the Dutchman's left fist sent the second man prostrate. The inspector, however, was not yet done for, and Aaron Rodd and Cresswell suddenly sprang simultaneously into the fray. Men and women leapt from their tables. There were shrieks, a crash of breaking glass. The policeman, who had been knocked down, staggered to his knees and blew his whistle furiously. The Dutchman, kicking, shaking, even trying to bite the poet's fingers, which had somehow seized his throat, dragged his assailants yard by yard towards the door. The whole place was in an uproar. Suddenly the swing-doors were pushed open. Two uniformed constables hurried in. Even then the Dutchman did not abandon the struggle. He wrenched himself almost free from the three men who had momentarily relaxed their hold, dealt the leading constable a terrific blow, which only just missed the side of his head, and knocked his helmet into pulp. That, however, was the end. The other constable was a powerful fellow and within thirty seconds the Dutchman was handcuffed. There was a crowd now upon the pavement. The Dutchman, his face covered with blood and his eyes glaring like the eyes of a wild animal, was bustled into a taxi. Aaron and the poet were left behind. They were neither of them much the worse for the struggle, but Aaron's collar was torn to pieces and the poet's coat had been ripped down one side. A waiter was hovering around them admiringly.
 
"Bring you something to drink, gentlemen?" he suggested.
 
They drank a brandy and soda each. Then the poet rose. He was conscious of various bruises but he was very happy.
 
"Home and seclusion, I think, for a time, my friend," he said. "What a heavenly scrap!"
 
***** 
Late that evening, a very immaculately dressed young man of most superior appearance discovered the poet in an easy chair in his club, awaiting the midnight rush of journalists and actors. The young man presented a card.
 
"You will find my name there, sir," he said, "and also the Service on behalf of which I pay you this visit."
 
Cresswell scrutinised the card and sat up in his chair.
 
"Have a drink?" he suggested.
 
His visitor begged to be excused.
 
"The Chief asked me to find you at the earliest possible moment," he announced, "to first of all express his thanks and the thanks of his department for your valuable services."
 
"Had the Dutchman got the goods on him?" the poet asked eagerly.
 
"He had indeed! He was carrying documents of high importance which were obviously destined for our enemies," the young man said. "Their contents are to a certain extent a secret, and I am to ask you to add to your services by allowing the matter to slip from your memory."
 
"What's going to become of Mrs. Abrahams?" Cresswell enquired.
 
"We received an indirect suggestion to-night from the Home Office," the young man replied, "that the lady in question should be cautioned. If it is any relief to you, let me assure you that my chief is not the sort of man to listen to such tosh. The lady will be interned, whatever her friends may attempt on her behalf. Two of the other people implicated, both in the censor's office, I regret to say, will be shot. You appear to have discovered a bureau which existed for the purpose of collecting and dispatching abroad, every week, various items of information likely to be of service to our enemies."
 
"What'll the Dutchman get?"
 
The young man hesitated.
 
"I have already somewhat exceeded my latitude," he said gravely. "May I ask you to consider what I have said in confidence, to forget this little adventure, and never again in this life to worry about the Dutchman?"
 
"I won't," the poet promised, with a chuckle. "By the by, what about Jack Lovejoy?"
 
"There is a reference only to some promised information from a person whom we concluded to be that young man," was the reply. "He has been asked to leave the country within twenty-four hours."
 
The young man took his leave and a few moments later Aaron Rodd appeared. He was wearing a pearl pin of wonderful quality, which the poet eyed curiously.
 
"A little farewell present," the former explained, as he settled down, "from Miss Pamela Keane."