The merry little laugh, so uncanny from the only origin visible, preceded the answer. “Really I, _Excellenz_--Karl Wertheimer, shot six months ago by the English in the Tower of London, and as alive in this room as ever I was.” The tone changed to that of a humorously bantering introduction. “Karl Wertheimer, _Excellenz_, the terror of the English counterespionage department, at your service--still!” The old man fumblingly produced a handkerchief and mopped at the perspiration on his brow. He hesitated for an appropriate remark. “Why----?” he asked falteringly, and stopped. The merry little laugh rang out again in the silent room. “Why, _Excellenz_? Because in my earth-life I had only one passion--and it is as strong as ever it was. _Stronger_, for I owe our enemies a grudge for that little early-morning shooting party in the Tower. You’ve no idea how I long for a really good cigar, _Excellenz_,” he finished in a tone of jesting complaint. The old man stared into the empty air beyond the girl. “And you can really obtain information and convey it?” He was recovering his poise. The question was asked in the brusque tone familiar to his subordinates. “Test me, _Excellenz_!” “I assure you, _Excellenz_----!” interjected Kranz, eagerly. His superior waved him aside. The brow under the short white hair had recovered its normal ruddiness, was wrinkled in cogitation. He felt in his pocket and produced a letter in a sealed envelope. “Tell me from whom this comes,” he said. He proffered the letter as though expecting it to be taken out of his fingers. Then, as it was not, he dropped his hand with a gesture of hopeless bafflement. There was so real a feeling of the actual presence of Karl Wertheimer in the room that the quite normal fact of the letter remaining untouched emphasized suddenly the uncanny nature of this conversation. “Permit me, _Excellenz_,” said Kranz, politely. He took the letter and laid it on the girl’s brow. Her lips moved at once. “This purports to be from the firm of Wilson and Staunton, Boston, to the firm of Jensen and Auerstedt, Christiania, with reference to an overdue account.” The voice was still the chuckling voice of Karl Wertheimer. “Actually, it is a communication in code to you from Heinrich Biedermann at New York. Do you wish me to read the message? I still remember the old code, _Excellenz_!” “No--no!” interposed the old man. “Never mind!” “Perhaps you would like me to tell you what Heinrich Biedermann is doing at this moment, _Excellenz_?” “But he is in New York! You can’t be here and there, too!” Again came the merry little laugh.