"Of course I am innocent. My friends will prove that. Oh! I won’t give you any trouble: the sooner I get to the police-station, the better." "That is reasonable," said the sergeant. They marched on. Kenneth looked eagerly at all the passers-by in the hope of finding a friend who would vouch for him; but he recognised no familiar face. On reaching the station he was searched, but deprived of nothing except his pocket-book and the letters it contained. "They are only private letters," he explained. "The whole matter is ridiculous. You will let me write a note to a friend, who will speak for me?" "Certainly," said the officer, "provided I see what you say." Kenneth quickly scribbled a note to Max Finkelstein, and handed it to the officer, who remarked that it had nothing suspicious about it, and placed it in an envelope which Kenneth addressed. "I shall be released as soon as Herr Finkelstein comes?" asked Kenneth. "That is doubtful," replied the officer. "It will probably be necessary to bring you before the magistrate to-morrow." "But I am going to England to-night." "To England! That is suspicious. Herr Finkelstein may have influence. We shall see." A short conversation, carried on in low tones, ensued between the sergeant and his superior officer. They were consulting as to where the prisoner should be placed: the cells, it appeared, were full. Ultimately Kenneth was taken to a room on the ground floor. The window was barred and shuttered on the outside, and light entered only by two small round apertures in the shutters. "A black hole, this," he said to the sergeant. "It will not be for long, if you are innocent," replied the man. Then he shut and locked the door; Kenneth was left to himself. CHAPTER II--THE FIRST TRICK With the door shut, the room was almost wholly dark. It contained no furniture but a plain deal table and a wooden chair. Kenneth sat down and ruminated. His position was annoying, but also mildly exciting. It would be something to tell his people when he got home, that he had been arrested as a spy. It was now five o’clock. Dinner was at seven: his train left at half-past nine, and the stationmaster had advised him to be at the station at least an hour in advance. He had addressed his note to Finkelstein at the office, and expected that his friend would arrive within half an hour or so and procure his release. In the absence of any evidence against him a prolonged detention would surely be impossible. Perhaps half an hour had passed when he heard footsteps on the passage; the key turned in the lock, and he started up, expecting to see Finkelstein. But there entered a constable, bringing a mug of beer and a piece of rye bread. "My friend Herr Finkelstein has not come?" Kenneth asked. "Nobody has come for you," replied the man. "My note was taken to him?" "If you wrote a note, I daresay it was." "Aren’t you sure?" "I have only just come on duty, sir."