I had posted my letter on the Friday afternoon and sauntered back to my office to see if any news had come in. The boy I employed told me there had been a caller, a gentleman who refused to give his name, but said he would come back later. I do not like callers who refuse to give their names, for though I do not believe there is a British Secret Service, there is always a possibility that the regular police may be going outside their province by prying into the lives and habits of “respectable aliens,” as they call them. “Did he leave no message?” I asked. “No, sir,” said the boy, “he merely said that he would call again.” It was not until the following day that my visitor made his reappearance. It was Saturday and I was preparing to go home in the English fashion at one o’clock, when the gentleman was announced. He was a tall, pale man with a dark and heavy moustache, bristling black eyebrows and that look of concentrated fierceness which so often distinguishes the insurance agent. “Come in,” I said, inviting him into my private office and closing the door. “What can I do for you?” “I have a message from Kathleen,” he said. I seized him warmly by the hand and shook it. “Any friend of Kathleen’s is a friend of mine,” I said: “sit down.” I looked around uncomfortably and went again to the door and dismissed the boy for the day, paying him his wages. “You may speak in perfect security,” I said. “Kathleen is coming home,” he whispered. “Coming home?” I could not restrain the joy in my voice. “Do you mean coming to----” “To Ireland,” he said. “Things are going well over there.” He need not have told me that. Indeed, I could have told him much more than he could possibly have known. I could have explained why things were going well. I could have made his hair stand on end if I had told him the amount of money that had passed through my hands for distribution to Dublin. I could have told him of stacks of arms landed on the deserted coast by our submarines and of visits which were made by the same vehicle of a certain distinguished Irishman, now unhappily no longer with us. I could have told him of the organization for which I, Heine, had been responsible, which had provided the patriots of Ireland with ammunition. But why continue the list? I did not tell him anything, and I have reason to believe that he was disappointed. A thought suddenly sobered me. “Is it safe for Kathleen to come over at this juncture?” I asked. “By the by, I don’t know your name.” “I am Theopholos Hagan,” he said, and I seemed to remember the name. “You have met me?” he went on. “Yes, yes, of course,” said I, and curiously enough I had a dim recollection of having met him somewhere, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember the circumstances. “Oh, yes, I remember you,” I said, for we Germans never admit ignorance on any subject. “There is something else I want to tell you about myself,” he said; “but perhaps this is not the moment to give away secrets.”