About her neck and shoulders was a Chinchilla wrap, which I valued at £250, and beneath the white kid gloves of one hand I saw the bulge of many rings. Her features were regular and aristocratic, her eyes blue and steadfast, her hair of pale gold. She was a type one meets as frequently in England as in Northern Germany or Denmark. In fine, the first impression I had was that she was of my own race, an impression helped very cleverly by her greeting. “Good day, Herr Cannelli,” she said (Cannelli being the name I traded under), and she spoke in faultless German. But, O gracious lady, Heine was on guard! At all times, I think, I am clever and alert; at some times I may be a little too clever, but never am I caught napping. I frowned, smiled, and shook my head. “You are speaking German, are you not?” I asked in English. “I am afraid I do not speak that language.” It was her turn to smile. “Come, come!” she rallied me, “you are not going to pretend with me,” and she laid two slim fingers on her chin, the old sign--the pre-war sign--by which one recognized a member of the Admiralty Secret Service. Aha! Gracious lady, thought I, would you try an old trick upon an old wolf! Do you not know that all the spy-revealing signs and make-knowing phrases had been changed on the outbreak of war? On me--on Heine--will you try these subterfuges! “I do not speak your language, madam,” I said, shaking my head; “_harla usted Espanol_.” I saw a shade of disappointment dim for a moment the brightness of her eyes, then she laughed. “I don’t know why I thought you spoke German,” she said coolly and speaking in perfect English; “but somehow you reminded me of a man I once knew in New York--a gentleman called by his friends, ‘Heine.’” She was watching me closely, but I never so much as blinked. “I am indeed fortunate, madame, even to resemble one whom you have remembered,” I said; “but I have never been to New York except on one occasion, and then only for a few hours.” “Then I’m sorry to have bothered you,” she smiled, and her smile was a radiance. “I saw you at dinner the other night and I was almost sure that you were the friend of other days who had sung ‘Es stehen unbeweglich.’” I could have laughed! Again the old song and the old “code of recognition”--a code which had been changed for six months. “My dear lady,” I said gently, “I have never sung in my life.” She was baffled and showed signs of distress. She stood biting her lips and frowning into the fire until, recovering her self-possession, she smiled, shrugged her shoulders and offered me her hand. “I am afraid you must think I am very stupid,” she said frankly, “but I could have sworn I knew you.” I took her hand and conducted her to the corridor and to the lift, and summoned Posser. Briefly I retailed all that had happened. “There is no doubt about it at all,” said Posser; “she came to trap you. We must get out of Manchester to-night, and we must take with us the specifications.”