“Have you brought me from Berlin to ask me that?” he demanded bitterly. “Have you taken me from my favourite café on Unter den Linden—by the way, the Germans are making small arm ammunition by the million at a converted pencil factory in Bavaria—to discuss Elmer? He’s a clerk, isn’t he?” Major Staines nodded. “He _was_,” he said, “in the Accountancy Department. He disappeared from view three weeks ago, and an examination of his books showed that he had been systematically stealing funds which were under his control.” Mike Brixan made a little face. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “He seemed to be a fairly quiet and inoffensive man. But surely you don’t want me to go after him? That is a job for Scotland Yard.” “I don’t want you to go after him,” said Staines slowly, “because—well, he has been found.” There was something very significant and sinister in his tone, and before he could take the little slip of paper from the portfolio on the desk, Michael Brixan knew what was coming. “Not the Head-Hunter?” he gasped. Even Michael knew about the Head-Hunter. Staines nodded. “Here’s the note.” He handed the typewritten slip across to his subordinate, and Michael read: “You will find a box in the hedge by the railway arch at Esher. “THE HEAD-HUNTER.” “The Head-Hunter!” repeated Michael mechanically, and whistled. “We found the box, and of course we found the unfortunate Elmer’s head, sliced neatly from his body,” said Staines. “This is the twelfth head in seven years,” Staines went on, “and in almost every case—in fact, in every case except two—the victim has been a fugitive from justice. Even if the treaty question had not been settled, Mike, I should have brought you back.” “But this is a police job,” said the young man, troubled. “Technically you’re a policeman,” interrupted his chief, “and the Foreign Secretary wishes you to take this case in hand, and he does this with the full approval of the Secretary of State, who of course controls Scotland Yard. So far, the death of Francis Elmer and the discovery of his gruesome remains have not been given out to the press. There was such a fuss last time that the police want to keep this quiet. They have had an inquest—I guess the jury was picked, but it would be high treason to say so—and the usual verdict has been returned. The only information I can give you is that Elmer was seen by his niece a week ago in Chichester. We discovered this before the man’s fate was known. The girl, Adele Leamington, is working for the Knebworth Film Corporation, which has its studio in Chichester. Old Knebworth is an American and a very good sort. The girl is a sort of super-chorus-extra, that’s the word——” Michael gasped. “Extra! I knew that infernal word would turn up again. Go on, sir—what do you wish me to do?” “Go along and see her,” said the chief. “Here is the address.”