The elevator man carefully reached a hand inside the door and took out the key. Then as stealthily he closed the door, locked it from the outside, and moved back swiftly to his cage, where the buzzer showed that the carpet cleaning company which occupied the fourth floor was in a hurry and didn’t care who knew it. At the end of twenty minutes two roundsmen went up in the cage. Going up they learned of the preliminaries. “Crazy, I guess,” finished the elevator man. “He looked crazy, now I think about it. Probably killed the lot by this time. Where do you fellows hide, anyhow?” Back in Booth, Photographer, there was a complete and awful silence. Revolvers ready, the door was opened and the roundsmen sprang in. It looked like the worst. The Indian blanket nor moved nor quivered. A chair, overturned, lay on top of it, and against that there leaned tipsily a photographer’s screen, on which was painted, in grays and whites, an Italian garden. “I’m glad to see you,” called a cheery voice. “I’m glad to see you!” Standing in the doorway of the dressing room was a tall young man. He held a brush in his hand and was still slicking down his hair. “How are you, anyhow?” demanded the tall young man, and proceeded to shake down the leg of a pair of black trousers. “A trifle short, aren’t they?” he observed. “But they’re a darn sight better than nothing!” “Get him, Joe,” said one of the officers casually, and walked toward the inner room. “Oh, I’ll go along all right,” said Sergeant Gray blithely. “It’s worth the price. I’m only sorry you didn’t see it. I——” “Joe!” called the other officer from the inner room. “Come here, will you?” “Mind if I go along?” asked Sergeant Gray. “I’d like to look at ’em again. I want to remember how they look all the rest of my life.” Joe nodded, and Sergeant Gray led the way to the studio. In a corner, roped tightly to a chair, sat Booth, Photographer. He was bleeding profusely from a cut on the lip and another over the eye, his head was bobbing weakly on his shoulders, and he wore, to be exact, one union suit minus two buttons on the chest and held together by a safety pin. Joe stumbling over the Indian blanket heard it groan beneath him, and uncovered a stout gentleman in a cutaway coat and with his collar torn off. “Pretty good, eh?” demanded Sergeant Gray. “Sorry about the collar, though. Booth’s is too small for me.” “Want an ambulance?” inquired the elevator man with unholy joy in his eyes. “Yes. Better have one.” And to the wreckage: “You gentlemen will be all right,” said Joe. “How’d this happen, anyhow?” “I’ll tell you,” volunteered the sergeant. “They’re spies, that’s what they are. German spies. D’you get it? And I——” “Aw, shut up!” said the first roundsman, wearily. “Take him along, Joe. Now, how d’you feel, Mr. Booth?” “But I tell you——” “You don’t tell me anything. You go. That’s all.”