The report of Peter Hooge, the steward of the Black Downs Country Club, who arrived shortly after noon, neither increased nor lessened the strain. He was unnecessarily alarmed. What if secret service men did visit the club-house and question the employés? That was not an unusual proceeding. They were doing something of the sort all the time. But, said Peter, they obtained a list of all the members and guests of the club present on the premises at the time of the Reynolds explosion. Naturally, said both Zimmerlein and Thorsensel: That was just what they _would_ do. Precious little good it would do them, however. “I was obliged to show them my passports and papers from the Swiss Government,” said Peter. “Well, they were all in order, weren't they?” “Perfectly. That isn't the point. The mere fact that they asked for them proves something, doesn't it?” “You are too old a bird to be frightened by pop-guns, Hooge,” said Thorsensel, gnawing at his moustache. “These fellows, from what I know of them, couldn't catch the scent of a polecat.” “I'm not so sure of that,” put in Zimmerlein. “They've landed some pretty big fish.” “They've landed a pack of blatant asses,” snapped Thorsensel. “Good God, man, you don't put Reistelen and others of his stripe in the class with--well, with a few I could mention, do you? They've only touched the surface, my friend. It is very deep,--very deep indeed--where the big fishes lie. Go back to your work, Hooge,--and don't worry us again with trifles.” Late in the afternoon Scarf came in. He came as a stoop-shouldered, consumptive-looking, unwashed District Messenger of uncertain age and stability. “Well?” cried Zimmerlein, glaring at the man. “Where in hell have you been?” grated Thorsensel. “That's just where I have been,” replied the messenger, straightening his bent figure and drawing a long, full breath. He passed his hand across his brow. “Or rather, I've been close enough to get an unpleasant whiff of it.” “Don't sit down!” exclaimed Zimmerlein, as the man prepared to sink into a chair. “I 'm all in, I 've got to,” and down he flopped. After a moment he leaned forward and fixed the others with burning, hitter eyes. “In the first place, do you know what's happened to Elberon?” “No,” fell in unison from the lips of the two men. “Well, he's sitting up in the United States Attorney's office with half a dozen experts trying to pump intelligence out of him.” An imprecation ground its way out between Thorsensel's teeth. Zimmerlein's lower lip tightened against his teeth. “I had it from Zumpe. They went to Elberon's house early this morning,--on the quiet, of course,--nothing for the public,--and took him down for a grilling. Zumpe says old Elberon has been getting pretty gabby with one or two people who ought to be good Germans but ain't.”