“Then I woke up. The words were ringing in my ears. They haunted me all the time I was dressing for dinner. I wondered if I ought to tell you. Something was whispering to me that I should. But I was afraid you would laugh at me. But that’s not all. You remember at dinner I dropped a glass.--Poppa!” Her voice suddenly became very earnest. “I saw that man--the man who had grown out of the girl--_standing behind you_. His eyes were fixed on you as though trying to read into you--so evilly that I went cold all over.” The Professor gave her a sharp glance. “No vision of the room in Berlin--or wherever it was?” he queried. She shook her head. “No. Just the man. But even that’s not all. Just now--when I was playing and looking across to you--_I distinctly saw him again_, close behind Poppa! He moved this time--moved with a funny little limp--just like a real man with a bad leg. I jumped up--and--and he was gone!” She looked around apprehensively as though expecting to see him still. “Your liver’s out of order, my dear,” said her father. “Take a pill when you go to bed to-night.” “No,” said the girl, “it’s not that. I know you would say I was ill--that is why I asked the Professor to examine me. I am sure it _means_ something!” Captain Sergeantson threw the end of his cigar into the fireplace and took a wallet out of his pocket. The wallet contained photographs. He handed them to the girl. “Miss Forsdyke,” he said, gravely, “would you mind telling me if you have ever seen any of these people?” The girl examined them. Suddenly she uttered a cry and held up one of the prints. “_This!_” she said. Her eyes were wide with astonishment. “This is the man I saw!--There’s the scar, too--exactly!--Who is he? Do you know him?” “That man,” replied Captain Sergeantson, sententiously, “is Karl Wertheimer. About the cutest spy the German Secret Service ever had.--I was going to tell Jimmy a story about him and brought his picture along with me,” he added in explanation. “I sort of recognized him from your description.” The girl stared at the photograph. “Of course,” continued Sergeantson, “he made up over that scar. He was an extraordinarily clever actor, by the way. They cleaned off the make-up when they took the photograph.” “And he is a German spy!” mused the girl, still staring at the picture. “He was!” replied Sergeantson, grimly. “The British shot him in the Tower when I was in London six months ago.” The girl looked up sharply. “I’m sure I’ve never seen his photograph before!” she said, as though answering an allegation she felt in the silence of the others. “How could I?” “I can’t imagine, Miss Forsdyke. The extraordinary thing is that you should have got his limp. That’s what gave him away to the British. He broke his leg dropping over a wall in an exceedingly daring escape at the beginning of the war. But how you should know about it beats me all to pieces.” “I didn’t _know_--I saw----”