"I remember one particular individual--a big, fat, jovial fellow--Von something or other, I've forgotten his name, except that it was a regular 'jaw-cracker'. Von Schmidt let's call him for the moment. A nicer chap to meet you couldn't wish for, that is, just at the beginning. I remember that he was trying to get together a business in dates. His sole object in life seemed to be that of bribing Arabs to bring in camel-loads of dates, and to deposit them in an old hut which he had hired just on the outskirts of Basra; and now and again he sent off a barge full of these same dates, consigning them to some place in Europe. But it was not his real business, my boy! And I found that out quite by accident. For, happening to get stranded one evening when darkness had fallen, and in the midst of a violent rain-storm, I claimed shelter from him--for there was a light in the window of his house. It was blowing big guns just then, and I suppose he didn't hear the rap I gave on the door. As a matter of fact, he was in his bedroom, which was at the back of the building. It wasn't the sort of time when one waits for a summons, for the rain was pouring down in torrents, as I told you, so I just pushed the door open and went into the main room of the building, and, shutting the door, shouted for him. Even then he didn't hear, so that I had time to take a good look round, and couldn't help seeing that the table in the centre of the room was piled with papers, and that maps--maps of Mesopotamia, maps of the Persian Gulf--diagrams showing the 'pipe-line', which brings our oil from Persia, and lists of Arab tribes, against which was placed a note in German, which showed that they were to be considered friendly, were spread out over the remaining portion of the table. You see," he added, with a chuckle, "I know a little German. Not much, you know, but just sufficient to read it. I can't tell you now all about those papers, and of course it isn't quite the thing for a man to enter the house of an acquaintance and read his private correspondence. It isn't 'cricket', of course, you know, and no Britisher does it; but accidents will happen, and that night it so fell out that my eyes were unwittingly opened: the fat, pleasant, jovial Von what's-his-name was undoubtedly a German Government agent." Geoff nodded briskly, for he and Major Douglas had had many an experience with German agents in Mesopotamia.