“Lola . . . about that story that Gordon told . . . your being married: it isn’t true?” She laughed again and patted the hand on hers. “Gordon is jealous,” she said. “I can’t tell you why—now. But he has good reasons.” Suddenly her mood grew gay, and she slipped away. “Listen, I’m going to ’phone for a table for lunch, and you will join us, and we’ll drink to the great little Frog who feeds us!” The telephone was on the sideboard, and as she lifted the receiver she saw the square black metal box clamped to its base. “Something new in ’phones, Ray?” she asked. “They fixed it yesterday. It’s a resistance. The man told me that somebody who was talking into a ’phone during a thunderstorm had a bad shock, so they’re fitting these things as an experiment. It makes the instrument heavier, and it’s ugly, but——” Slowly she put the receiver down and stooped to look at the attachment. “It’s a detectaphone,” she said quietly. “And all the time we’ve been talking somebody has been making a note of our conversation.” She walked to the fireplace, took up a poker and brought it down with a crash on the little box. . . . Inspector Elk, with a pair of receivers clamped to his head, sat in a tiny office on the Thames Embankment, and put down his pencil with a sigh. Then he took up his telephone and called Headquarters Exchange. “You can switch off that detectaphone to Knightsbridge 93718,” he said. “I don’t think we shall want it any more.” “Did I put you through in time, sir?” asked the operator’s voice. “They had only just started talking when I called you.” “Plenty of time, Angus,” said Elk, “plenty of time.” He gathered up his notes and went to his desk and placed them tidily by the side of his blotting-pad. Strolling to the window, he looked out upon the sunlit river, and there was peace and comfort in his heart, for overnight the prisoner Mills had decided to tell all he knew about the Frogs on the promise of a free pardon and a passage to Canada. And Mills knew more than he had, as yet, told. “I can give you a line to Number 7 that will put him into your hands,” his note had run. Number Seven! Elk caught a long breath. No. 7 was the hub on which the wheel turned. He rubbed his hands cheerfully, for it seemed that the mystery of the Frog was at last to be solved. Perhaps “the line” would lead to the missing treaty—and at the thought of the lost document Elk’s face clouded. Two ministers, a great state department and innumerable under-secretaries spent their time in writing frantic notes of inquiry to headquarters concerning Lord Farmley’s loss. “They want miracles,” said Elk, and wondered if the day would produce one. He went to his overcoat pocket to find a cigar, and his hand touched a thick roll of papers. He pulled them out and threw them upon the desk, and as he did so the first words on the first sheet caught his eye. “_By the King’s Most Excellent Majesty in Council_——”