For many nights Greens was absent from dinner. This did not surprise those in the know. He was spy-hunting. Though the military and police had terrified many of the fraternity, Greens knew that he would at least catch one. So he lounged carelessly through the streets, casually glancing at every face. Unlike the average policeman, he did not search for the square head, flaxen hair, and soft-footed Teuton. He could tell by their eyes. Strange as this may seem, any Intelligence Officer will substantiate the same. The spy has that peculiar glint of cunning, with a touch of the haunted and hunted, and the shifty movements which always suggest a base intent. Such a keen student of espionage found little difficulty in locating his man. Nevertheless he waited almost a fortnight before he got his chance, and then it came almost unexpectedly. While lounging carelessly in a public place, he was amazed to hear a man using German gutturals behind. This person was inquiring of his friend, in a somewhat casual style, as to the number of troops in the town, where they were located, and what was their job in the event of any attack. Listening intently, he discovered a keen German brain analysing all the replies of the honest and simple-minded citizen. Through a mirror the observant officer studied the face of the spy. Strong, almost English, with firm set lines and a chin suggesting courage of a bull-dog kind. An excellent type for such a mission. His flaxen hair and a slight student cut on the lip were the only outward signs of his race. His English, to an ordinary man, would have passed unobserved, but Greens detected the thick guttural now and again, as well as a furtive glance towards his own person. This German agent was unaware of the keen scrutiny which he was being subjected to through the mirror. Nor did he imagine that the officer who paid his bill and went out would confront him again with his escort of soldiers. "Who is he?" asked Greens of the proprietor. "A German, sir." "Thank you, I’ll be back in a minute," and off went the spy hunter to the nearest billet. There he collared an escort, and marched to the place again. The German was just going out. "Excuse me, aren’t you a German?" "Yes, sir. Here is my passport, signed by the Foreign Secretary, also my birth certificate," replied the Teuton, pulling out the bonds of safety which a sleepy officialdom gives to the enemies of our country. "Naturalised?" "Yes, certainly; my mother and friends are knitting socks for the troops," he answered testily. "You seem to be interested in our troops here?" "Everybody is—it’s natural at a time like this." "Perhaps," said Greens, stroking his chin and sizing up his man in case of emergency. "What are you doing here?" "I’m an agent for iron goods." "The name of your firm?" "——, London." "That’s an alien firm." "A naturalised German. You don’t deny us the right to live?" "No, but I deny you the right to spy."