"Well, after watching Schrieber put the vase in the room, I entered after him and replaced it by the vase you had bought, afterwards taking the one with the explosive needle to Schrieber's room and carrying away the superfluous one. The man must have glanced at the pair of vases on his mantelshelf before sleeping, but he, of course, never dreamed that he was gazing upon the infernal contrivance that he had placed in the Minister's room with his own hand." "I see," exclaimed Ella. "And, surely, he richly deserved his fate!" The deadly contrivance was found when the room was searched, but the police of G--still regard the affair as a complete and inexplicable mystery. CHAPTER FIVE. THE BRASS TRIANGLE. A bank of dense fog hung over the Thames early on that December morning. The bell of St Paul's Church, at Hammersmith, had struck two o'clock when across the long suspension-bridge a tall man in a black waterproof coat and black plush hat walked with a swing, smoking a cigarette, and passed hurriedly out into the straight broad thoroughfare of Castelnau. For some distance he proceeded, then suddenly he slackened pace, glanced at the luminous watch upon his wrist, and, a few moments later, halted against some railings, and, looking across the road, waited patiently opposite the house occupied by the pious Dutch pastor, the Reverend Theodore Drost. The house was in darkness, and there was not a sound in the street save the barking of a dog at the rear of a house in the vicinity. In patience, Flight-Commander Kennedy, for it was he, waited watchfully. He remained for a full quarter of an hour, ever and anon glancing at his watch, until, of a sudden, the front door opposite was opened noiselessly, and he saw the gleam of a flash-lamp. In a moment he had crossed the road and, ascending the steps, met his well-beloved. As he met her, he thought how strange it all seemed, what a romance it was. Here was this charming girl, whom the world only knew as a celebrated revue artiste, helping him to frustrate the criminal plans of her German father. Ella, standing at the door, whispered: "Hush!" And without a word Seymour Kennedy, treading tiptoe, slipped within. The house was familiar to him. He grasped the soft white hand of his well-beloved and, raising it to his lips, kissed it in homage. She was wearing a dainty purple and yellow kimono, her little feet thrust into red morocco Turkish slippers, which were noiseless, and, as she ascended the thickly-carpeted stairs, he followed her without uttering a word. Up they went, to the top floor. The door which faced them at the head of the stairs she unlocked with a key, and after they were both inside she closed the door and then switched on the light.