The younger man knuckled his brow for a minute, then looked up brightly. "I say, General, Craigen was governor then. But--um--aren't you a bit--mild; this asking of a suspected spy to tea?" "What can I do?" the other replied, somewhat testily. "I can't clap an officer of his majesty's army into prison on the mere say-so of a drunken outcast who has no proof to offer. I must go slowly, Major. Watch for a slip from this Woodhouse. One bad move on his part, and he starts on his way to face a firing squad." Bishop had risen and was slowly pacing the room, his eyes on the walls, hung with many portraits in oils. "Well, you can't help admiring the nerve of the chap," he muttered, half to himself. "Forcing his way on to the Rock--why, he might as well put his head in a cannon's mouth." "I haven't time to admire," the general said shortly. "Thing to do is to act." "Quite right. Nineteen-seven, eh? Um----" He paused before the portrait of a young woman in a Gainsborough hat and with a sparkling piquant face. "By George, General, why not try him on Lady Evelyn? There's a fair test for you, now!" "You mean Craigen's wife?" The general looked up at the portrait quizzically. "Skeleton's bones, Bishop." "Right; but no man who ever saw her could forget. I know I never can. Poor Craigen!" "Good idea, though," the older man acquiesced. "We'll trip him on Lady Evelyn." Jaimihr Khan appeared at the double doors. "The general sahib's orderly," he announced. The young subaltern entered and saluted. "That young man, General Crandall, the one Sergeant Crosby was to escort out of the lines to Algeciras----" "Well, what of him? He's gone, I hope." "First train to Madrid, General; but he left a message for you, sir, to be delivered after he'd gone, he said." "A message?" General Crandall was perplexed. "As Sergeant Crosby had it and gave it to me to repeat to you, sir, it was, 'Arrest the cigar girl calling herself Josepha. She is one of the cleverest spies of the Wilhelmstrasse.'" CHAPTER XIII ENTER, A CIGARETTE Mr. Joseph Almer, proprietor of the Hotel Splendide, on Waterport Street, was absorbed, heart and soul, in a curious task. He was emptying the powder from two-grain quinine capsules on to a sheet of white letter paper on his desk. It was noon of Wednesday, the day following the arrival of Captain Woodhouse. Almer was alone in the hotel's reception room and office behind the dingy glass partially enclosing his desk. His alpaca-covered shoulders were close to his ears; and his bald head, with its stripes of plastered hair running like thick lines of latitude on a polished globe, was held far forward so as to bring his eyes on the work in hand. Like some plump magpie he appeared, turning over bits of china in a treasure hole.