We sat on that bench by the water’s edge where I had met Nanette. O’Shea continued his scrutiny of the message, and, looking over his shoulder, I read it again for perhaps the twentieth time. Its absurdity fogged me. Passers-by ceased to exist, and I forgot Peter Pan. “Perhaps,” said I, “it is some kind of code.” “Since it is otherwise meaningless,” O’Shea murmured, without raising his eyes, “your suggestion is excellent. You will have noticed that there are three references to the British Museum and that the expression ‘Two London Bridges’ occurs?” “I had not particularly noticed this,” I admitted. “Two London Bridges,” O’Shea went on musingly. “Very interesting--very interesting. You see where I mean?” He indicated the passage with the rim of his monocle. “Quite,” said I eagerly. “But Charing Cross, Berkeley Square, and Bond Street also occur several times.” “But only Bond Street and Berkeley Square crop up in pairs,” he replied, “if we exclude the brace of London Bridges.” And now, as we sat there pondering over this nonsensical piece of writing, came a strange interruption. “Have you seen Comrade Zara?” said a guttural voice. I looked up sharply. A stout German obstructed my view of Kensington Gardens. His ample face was draped in a pleasant smile, and he surveyed O’Shea and myself through a pair of spectacles that resembled portholes. No doubt I was gaping like an imbecile but O’Shea rose to the situation lightly. “He is here,” he replied calmly. “Are you from Comrade Schmidt?” “I am,” said the German. His smile disappeared. Relieved of it, his face was frankly sinister. “Have you seen Comrade Wilson?” Perhaps it is unnecessary to state that emerging from a perusal of the letter about Hyde Park, Bond Street, and Berkeley Square, and finding myself plunged into this apparently inane conversation, I began to doubt my own sanity; but: “_This_ is Comrade Wilson,” said O’Shea gravely, and waved his hand in my direction! The German nodded in a very brusque way. “Show me the order,” he demanded. O’Shea held up the demented document we had been reading; whereupon: “Good,” said our eccentric acquaintance. “Quick! The order for to-night!” He passed an envelope to O’Shea. “I am followed. Good-morning.” He moved off hurriedly, and I was still staring in speechless astonishment when a thick-set man wearing a blue suit and a soft hat, and who, without resembling a straggler from the Row, might have been a Colonial visitor, came along the path. One keen side-glance he gave us, and then disappeared in the wake of our Teutonic acquaintance. “O’Shea----” I began; but: “After all,” he interrupted me, “one must admit that the Scotland Yard people are efficient. That was a detective-inspector of the Special Branch.” “Do you mean he is following the German?” “Undoubtedly.” “But why should he follow him? Who was the German?” “I haven’t the faintest idea!” O’Shea replied. “But he mentioned Zara! And you seemed to know him.”