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 of Captain Wentz, who managed to step back only in time to avoid it.

But the officer was equal to the occasion.

“I was seeking General von Stromberg,” he said coolly.

“He isn’t here,” Doris heard Cyril say quietly. And then, “I wanted a glass of water. Fräulein Mather is feeling ill.”

“Ah! I will have it brought at once.” As he disappeared in the passage to the kitchen, Cyril closed the door and came in three strides to the fireplace, reached up and raised the picture from the wall, peering under it, and touched the surface of the wallpaper with the tips of his fingers. Then with great care he put the picture back in its place and bent over Doris close to her ear, whispering: “They suspect. Everything we have said has been overheard. A microphone! I knew it was here somewhere.” The pallor of her face when the man from the kitchen brought the water was almost convincing proof of the truth of Hammersley’s statement. She did look ill, for terror of the situation that confronted them had driven the blood back to her heart. A moment ago the room had seemed so friendly, and now every object in it was a menace. And above the mantel the Emperor of Germany with his upturned mustaches glared down at her austerely, eloquent of the relentless forces that held them in their thrall. Behind her she heard Cyril whispering with the man who had brought the water and realized that it was the tall soldier with the lame leg who had brought her toast and eggs upstairs.

“Danke sehr, Lindberg,” Cyril said aloud. “She is tired from the journey.”