“Johann Wolff,” he repeated. “That is not my name. I am Ludwig Miller, and I know nothing of this matter beyond what I have told you. I am just a messenger.” “Once in Vienna and twice in Cracow, my friend, we have met,” Seaman reminded him softly but very insistently. The other shook his head gently. “A mistake. I have been in Vienna once many years ago, but Cracow never.” “You have no idea with whom you are talking?” “Herr Seaman was the name, I understood.” “It is a very good name,” Seaman scoffed. “Look here and think.” He undid his coat and waistcoat and displayed a plain vest of chamois leather. Attached to the left-hand side of it was a bronze decoration, with lettering and a number. Miller stared at it blankly and shook his head. “Information Department, Bureau Twelve, password--'The Day is coming,'” Seaman continued, dropping his voice. His listener shook his head and smiled with the puzzled ignorance of a child. “The gentleman mistakes me for some one else,” he replied. “I know nothing of these things.” Seaman sat and studied this obstinate visitor for several minutes without speaking, his finger tips pressed together, his eyebrows gently contracted. His vis-a-vis endured this scrutiny without flinching, calm, phlegmatic, the very prototype of the bourgeois German of the tradesman class. “Do you propose,” Dominey enquired, “to stay in these parts long?” “One or two days--a week, perhaps,” was the indifferent answer. “I have a cousin in Norwich who makes toys. I love the English country. I spend my holiday here, perhaps.” “Just so,” Seaman muttered grimly. “The English country under a foot of snow! So you have nothing more to say to me, Johann Wolff?” “I have executed my mission to his Excellency,” was the apologetic reply. “I am sorry to have caused displeasure to you, Herr Seaman.” The latter rose to his feet. Dominey had already turned towards the door. “You will spend the night here, of course, Mr. Miller?” he invited. “I dare say Mr. Seaman would like to have another talk with you in the morning.” “I shall gladly spend the night here, your Excellency,” was the polite reply. “I do not think that I have anything to say, however, which would interest your friend.” “You are making a great mistake, Wolff,” Seaman declared angrily. “I am your superior in the Service, and your attitude towards me is indefensible.” “If the gentleman would only believe,” the culprit begged, “that he is mistaking me for some one else!” There was trouble in Seaman's face as the two men made their way to the front of the house and trouble in his tone as he answered his companion's query. “What do you think of that fellow and his visit?” “I do not know what to think, but there is a great deal that I know,” Seaman replied gravely. “The man is a spy, a favourite in the Wilhelmstrasse and only made use of on important occasions. His name is Wolff--Johann Wolff.” “And this story of his?” “You ought to be the best judge of that.”