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."