When he had gone, Elk made a close scrutiny of the house. He found two children’s books, both well-thumbed, and an elementary copybook, in which a childish hand had followed, shakily, the excellent copperplate examples. The _abacus_ was gone, however. In the cupboard where he had seen the unopened circulars, he made a discovery. It was a complete outfit, as far as he could judge, for a boy of six or seven. Every article was new—not one had been worn. Elk carried his find to where Dick was still puzzling over some of the more obscure notes which “No. 7” had left in his flight. “What do you make of these?” he asked. The Prosecutor turned over the articles one by one, then leant back in his chair and stared into vacancy. “All new,” he said absently, and then a slow smile dawned on his face. Elk, who saw nothing funny in the little bundle, wondered what was amusing him. “I think these clothes supply a very valuable clue; does this?” He passed a paper across the table, and Elk read: “All bulls hear on Wednesday 3.1.A. L.V.M.B. Important.” “There are twenty-five copies of that simple but moving message,” said Dick; “and as there are no envelopes for any of the instructions, I can only suppose that they are despatched by Hagn either from the club or his home. This is how far I have got in figuring the organization of the Frogs. Frog Number One works through ‘Seven,’ who may or may not be aware of his chief’s identity. Hagn—whose number is thirteen, by the way, and mighty unlucky it will be for him—is the executive chief of Number Seven’s bureau, and actually communicates with the section chiefs. He may or may not know ‘Seven’—probably he does. Seven takes orders from the Frog, but may act without consultation if emergencies arise. There is here,” he tapped the paper, “an apology for employing Mills, which bears this out.” “No handwriting?” “None—nor finger-prints.” Elk took up one of the slips on which the messages were written, and held it to the light. “Watermark Three Lion Bond,” he read. “Typewriter new, written by somebody who was taught and has a weak little finger of the left hand—the ‘q’ and ‘a’ are faint. That shows he’s a touch typist—uses the same finger every time. Self-taught typists seldom use their little fingers. Especially the little finger of the left hand. I once caught a bank thief through knowing this.” He read the message again. “‘All bulls hear on Wednesday . . .’ Bulls are the big men, the bull frogs, eh? Where do they hear? ‘3.1.A.’? That certainly leaves me guessing, Captain. Why, what do you think?” Dick was regarding him oddly. “It doesn’t get me guessing,” he said slowly. “At 3.1 a.m. on Wednesday morning, I shall be listening in for the code signal L.V.M.B.—we are going to hear that great Frog talk!” “Will he talk about the durned treaty?” growled Elk. CHAPTER XV THE MORNING AFTER