At the sound of their entrance, he rose and faced them. When he stood erect the sturdiness of his build became accentuated, and they saw he was a man of medium height, but so muscular that he looked much shorter. A pair of large tortoise-shell spectacles straddled a big beak-like nose, and he wore a heavyish blond moustache with its points trained upwards and outwards rather after the fashion made famous in the Fatherland by William Hohenzollern. In his ill-cut suit of cheap-looking blue serge, which he wore with a pea-green tie, Robin thought he looked altogether a typical specimen of the German of the non-commissioned officer class. “You ask for me?” he said in deep guttural accents, looking at Robin; “I am Herr Schulz!” The German’s manner was cold and formal and Robin felt a little dashed. “My name is Greve,” he began rather hurriedly. “I understand you received a visit to-day from a young English lady, a Miss Trevert ...” The German let his eyes travel slowly from Robin to the doctor and back again. He did not offer them a chair and all three remained standing. “Ye-es, and what if I did?” Robin felt his temper rising. “You wrote a note to Miss Trevert at her hotel warning her that she was in danger. I want to know why you warned her. What led you to suppose that she was threatened?” Herr Schulz made a little gesture of the hand. “Wass I not right to warn her?” “Indeed, you were,” Robin asserted with conviction. “She was spirited away and drugged.” The German started. A frowning pucker appeared just above the bridge of his big spectacles and he raised his head quickly. “Drugged?” he said. “Certainly,” said Robin. “This gentleman with me is a doctor ... Dr. Robert Collingwood, of the Red Lion Line. He has examined Miss Trevert and can corroborate my statement.” “By Gad!” exclaimed Herr Schulz—and this time his English was faultless and fluent—“Shut that door behind you, Mr. Greve, and shoot the bolt—that’s it just below the knob! Sit down, sit down, and while I mix you a drink, you shall tell me about this!” CHAPTER XXV. THE READING OF THE RIDDLE In uttering those words Herr Schulz seemed suddenly to become loose-limbed and easy. His plethoric rigidity of manner vanished, and, though he spoke with a brisk air of authority, there was a jovial ring in his voice which instantly inspired confidence. With the change the illusion supported by his appalling clothes was broken and he looked like a man dressed up for charades. “Are you—English?” asked Robin in astonishment. “Only in this room,” was the dry reply, “and don’t you or our friend, the doctor, here forget it. You’ll both take whisky? Three fingers will do you good, Mr. Greve, for I see you’ve had a roughish time this morning. Say when!” He spurted a siphon into three glasses.