"It has only turned the corner of the café-restaurant," the Chief said in his quiet tones. He glanced in the direction of the squat block of gaily painted wooden buildings devoted to the inner needs of Fanshaw’s clients. "The awning hides it, but I can see a bit of it still. Until it moves, I can go on talking. Frankly, I am in the position of the High Church curate who went out wild-pig shooting in the territories of the Limpopo with a single-bore hammer-gun of grandpapa’s pattern—and got his choice of pot-shots between a lion and a rhino. Prinz Heinrich is my royal lion and von Herrnung,—who counted for little more than a bush-pig—has suddenly swelled into a rhinoceros." He pulled the grizzled moustache thoughtfully, keeping his eyes glued on the back of the big blue car. "If I could get hold of Sherbrand!—but the chance is dead for the rhino and lion winding me. Old von Moltke with the big wart on his ginger-coloured face, and the charming manner that makes you forget that you don’t like him!—would certainly recognise me—and the nautical Hohenzollern and I have met once or twice before. I must lay low like Brer Rabbit, and take a single-handed chance. No, no, Doctor, you have your patients to look after! I am not going to drag you into this. But if I’d got a couple of my Boy Scouts handy——" He broke off, encountering Bawne’s bright eyes. "By George, Doctor! I’m going to chance it! I’m going to give your youngster an opportunity to prove his Saxham blood!" The Master-hand gave the Scout’s Sign, and Bawne shot across like a brownish streak of swiftness. He drew himself up, gave the Full Salute, and stood waiting, his rigid attitude in sharp contrast with his dancing, expectant eyes. The Doctor looked at his watch and moved away silently. The Chief said in a clear undertone: "You see that tall, red-haired man in grey clothes over there with Mr. Sherbrand? Don’t look at him openly, or he will know we are talking about him, but take a sidelong gliff, and say." "I see him, sir." "Do you know anything of him? Stand easy and answer carefully." The hand came down from the hat-brim. The boy said: "I’ve heard him talk, sir, and I think he is German. I’m learning that and French at Charterhouse." "He is a German. Do you speak enough of the language to understand him, suppose he were talking to one of his countrymen?" "_Ich—kann—lesen, aber Ich kann es—nicht sprechen._" The answer came slowly. "And if they weren’t using crack-jaw words, sir, or talking very quick, I might manage—I could make out a lot of what they said." "Very well, keep your man under close observation and—you see that brown satchel he has in his hand?"