“I was born in Germany,” the other answered, without the slightest hesitation, “but my family moved to this country when I was six years old. I am an American citizen, and for the past few months I have been a member of the United States Secret Service. I and my colleagues have been watching you since this country entered the war. We lost track of you for a few days after you left New London, but I was fortunate in learning your address this morning. Now, Becker, there is no use in making a row. Your game is up. There are two policemen waiting for you on the stairs, and as this is the third floor, you have no chance of escaping by the window.” Whatever Rudolph Becker was, he was no coward. He drew himself up and folded his arms. “What I have done was for my country,” he said. “I am not ashamed. If I am a spy, so are you, only with a difference. I have been working for Germany, and you--a German born--are in the service of her enemies.” Fritz Lippheim shrugged his shoulders, and turned to his companion. “Will you tell those men they may come in, Mr. Douaine?” he said. Mr. Douaine left the room for a moment, and when he returned he was accompanied by two stout policemen. Mrs. Becker was nowhere to be seen. At the first sign of danger, she had fled to her room, and locked herself in. “Arrest this man,” commanded the secret service agent. The policemen obeyed. Mr. Becker offered no resistance, but stood quietly while the handcuffs were fastened on. He was evidently resigned to the inevitable. “The next thing is to make a thorough search of the apartment,” said Fritz Lippheim. For the first time the prisoner showed signs of embarrassment. “I beg that you will not consider that necessary,” he said. “I have surrendered without a struggle. I am prepared to give up all the papers in my possession.” “Search the apartment,” ordered Fritz, and began opening table-drawers, while Mr. Douaine and one of the policemen left the room together. There was a moment of tense silence while Fritz emptied several drawers, and ran his eye hastily over the contents. Then the policeman returned. “The door of one of the bedrooms is locked, sir,” he announced. “There is a woman in there; we can hear her crying.” “Order her to come out,” said Fritz, imperturbably. “If she refuses, break in the door.” “It is my wife,” protested Becker, “my poor, delicate wife. Surely, gentlemen, you will respect her feelings. I will go away quietly with you, but do not disturb my wife.” But the police officer had already left the room, and in another moment he could be heard knocking at Mrs. Becker’s door. “I say, ma’am, unlock that door, will you? We’ve got to get in there. We don’t want to use violence, but it may be necessary if you don’t obey the orders of the police.” There was the sound of a door being flung violently open, and Mrs. Becker, pale and wild-eyed, rushed into the sitting-room and flung herself on her knees at Fritz Lippheim’s feet.