“It’s this, Mr Dare. For some time past the wireless stations at Newstead and Crowston have complained of jamming. In other words, unauthorised messages are passing, and by a process of elimination and deduction we are satisfied they emanate from somewhere in this neighbourhood. As an old resident and a Justice of the Peace----” “A very nominal J.P. of late, I’m afraid,--thanks to the war.” The Inspector nodded. “We felt sure, however, that any assistance in your power you would render us.” “Assuredly. Anything I can do. But I don’t at the moment see what.” “From the nature of the messages that have been intercepted,--they are in code of course, but our people have managed to get an inkling of their meaning,--it is evident that someone is sending out information of moment to some enemy station, probably nearer the coast. And we’ve got to get to the bottom of it. Very powerful instruments are being used and probably from a considerable elevation. Now is there anyone in this neighbourhood, within your knowledge, likely to be up to anything of the kind?” “I should not have thought so.... In fact it is hard to believe it of any of one’s neighbours....” “Unfortunately, our experience is that the folks who are in this kind of business are just the ones one would least expect. What enemy aliens have you round here?” “Quite a lot,--or we had. And mostly quite nice people. But a number have left since the war began,--either they thought it safer to get back home, or you are taking care of them elsewhere.” “We’ve got quite a lot on our hands, but evidently not all. Would you tell me, sir, who there are left about here?” “Well,--let me see. There are the Jacobsens,--they claim to be Danish, I believe. He’s a produce-importer in quite a big way.” “What age of a man, and what family?” “He’ll be somewhere about fifty, I should say. Family,--wife, two daughters and a boy of seventeen.” “Where does he live?” And so they progressed through such a list as Mr Dare could make out on the spur of the moment. The Inspector making an occasional note and asking many pointed questions. And when Mr Dare’s spring of information had apparently dried up, he asked suddenly, “Whose is the tall old-fashioned red-brick house up there on top of the hill,--the one with the double-peaked roof and the tall old-fashioned chimney-stacks?” “That? Oh that’s Dr Rhenius’s. But he’s quite above suspicion. He’s lived here for over twenty years.” “What is he? German?” “It’s the one thing he resents--to be called a German,” said Mr Dare, with a smile. “His father was a Pole from somewhere near Warsaw. He himself has been naturalised for twenty years at least----” “Do you know that?” “Well,”--with a surprised lift of the brows--“if you put it as a legal point,--no! I don’t know that anyone has ever questioned it. You see, he is our medico round here, and is greatly esteemed and liked. He’s an uncommonly clever doctor and everybody’s very good friend.”