"Yes sir," Wilson replied. "A very simple numbers code. Matter of fact, sir, I fancy it's one he made up for his own use. I've decoded and typed out everything, sir. Mostly personal notes for his own use. It seems like the chap didn't care to trust to memory, so put it all down in code. But most, _most_ interesting, sir!" "Thank you, Wilson, and jolly quick work," Colonel Fraser said, as he took the little black book, and the two sheets of typewritten lines. Then, with an apologetic smile at Major Crandall, and Dawson, and Farmer, he murmured, "Excuse me, Gentlemen, while I glance through this stuff, will you?" All three replied that that was all right, but even though they had shouted, "No!" in a loud chorus it wouldn't have made any difference, for the colonel was already giving his concentrated attention to the reading matter. Dawson tried to be polite and not stare at the man, but when Colonel Fraser suddenly gasped sharply, muttered something under his breath, and a look of angry bewilderment flooded his face, neither Dawson or the other two could possibly keep their eyes off him. It was almost comical, the picture. Major Fraser, Dawson and Freddy Farmer were like three eager dogs who were having the dickens of a time controlling themselves until they received the signal. Eventually Colonel Fraser slapped the papers down on the desk with an oath, and didn't even bother to apologize. His face was flaming red, and his eyes glittered like ice cubes in the sun. "Incredible, unbelievable!" he finally exploded. "Good heavens! There's almost as much information about things here in England as we know ourselves. That Herr Baron is a devil, I swear. He's--he's almost superhuman, the rascal!" "Information about what, sir?" Major Crandall asked, after he had waited a polite moment. Colonel Fraser slapped a hand on the little black book. "About American and R.A.F. forces in England!" he cried. "The location of every drome, the types of planes, the commanding officer, signal codes and--everything! Why, I can hardly believe it! It must have taken his agents months of blastedly clever work to gather all that data!" The colonel suddenly cut himself off short. A lot of the anger and the red faded from his face, and in the next moment he actually smiled. "But not too clever, I fancy," he said. "The Nazi is a strange creature. He can make himself perfect in all things except one. I mean that in his make-up there is always one very strong failing. And that's why they never win in the end, because they always make one costly slip. The weak link breaks, you might say, and all the rest goes to pot. In Herr Baron the weak link was his tendency to put details down on paper. As Wilson said, the chap didn't care to trust to memory. Listed here are the names and addresses of every one of his agents in England. He even has listed the contact points that his agents use to get across the Channel to Occupied France."