The detective, obeying the hypnotic eye of the policeman, knocked. There was silence. The bluecoat, my one ally, was crouching for a spring. Then light steps crossed the room, and the door was opened. There stood a girl,--a most attractive girl, the girl that I had seen downstairs. Straight and slender, spiritedly gracious in bearing, with gray eyes questioning us from beneath lashes of crinkly black, she was a radiant figure as she stood facing us, with a coat of bright-blue velvet thrown over her rosy gown. “Beg pardon, miss,” said the policeman, brightly, “this gintleman’s been robbed.” As her eyebrows went up a fraction, I could have murdered him, for how else could she read his statement save that I took her for the thief? “I am very sorry,” I explained, bowing formally, “to disturb you. We are hunting a thief who took French leave by my fire-escape. I must have been mistaken--I thought that he dodged in again by this window. You have not seen or heard anything of him, of course?” “No, I haven’t. But then, I just this instant came up from dinner,” she replied. Her low, contralto tones, quite impersonal, were yet delightful; I could have stood there talking burglars with her till dawn. “Do you wish to come in and make sure that he is not in hiding?” With a half smile for which I didn’t blame her, she moved a step aside. “Certainly not!” I said firmly, ignoring a nudge from the policeman. “He left before you came--there was ample time. It is not of the least consequence, anyhow. Again I beg your pardon.” As she inclined her head, I bowed, and closed the door. “I trust Mr. Bayne, that you are satisfied at last.” This was the St. Ives manager, and I did not like his tone. “I am satisfied of several things,” I retorted sharply, “but before I share them with you, will you kindly tell me your name?” “My name is Ritter,” he said with dignity. “I confess I fail to see what bearing--” “Call it curiosity,” I interrupted. “Doctor, favor me with yours.” The doctor peered at me over his glasses, hesitated, and then revealed his patronym. It was Swanburger, he informed me. “But, my dear sir, what on earth--” “Merely,” said I, with conviction, “that this isn’t an Allies’ night. It is _Deutschland uber Alles_; the stars are fighting for the Teuton race. Now, let’s hear how you were christened,” I added, turning to the house detective, who looked even less sunny than before if that could be. “See here, whatcher giving us?” snarled that somewhat unpolished worthy. “My name’s Zeitfeld; but I was born in this country, don’t you forget it, same as you.” “A great American personality,” I remarked dreamily, “has declared that in the hyphenate lies the chief menace to the United States. And what’s your name?” I asked the representative of law and order. “Is it Schmidt?” “No, sir,” he responded, grinning; “it’s O’Reilly, sorr.”