who discovered the author of the theft in an English internment camp; it
was I who prevailed upon him to acquiesce in our terms; it was I who
finally located the hiding place of the document ... all this, mark you,
without setting foot in England."

My thoughts flew back again to the three slips of paper in their canvas
cover, the divided crest, the big, sprawling, upright handwriting. I
should have known that hand. I had seen it often enough on certain
photographs which were accorded the place of honour in the drawing room
at Consistorial-Rat von Mayburg's at Bonn.

"I therefore had the prior claim," Clubfoot continued, "to be entrusted
with the important task of fetching the document and of handing it back
to the writer. But the gentleman was in a hurry; the gentleman always
is; he could not wait for that old slowcoach of a Clubfoot to mature his
plans for getting into England, securing the document, and getting out
again.

"So Bernstorff is called into consultation, the head of an embassy that
has made the German secret service the laughing-stock of the world, an
ambassador that has his private papers filched by a common sneak-thief
in the underground railway and is fool enough to send home the most
valuable documents by a jackass of a military attaché who lets the whole
lot be taken from him by a dunderheaded British customs officer at
Falmouth! _This_ was the man who was to replace _me!_

"Bernstorff is accordingly bidden to despatch one of his trusty servants
to England, with all suitable precautions, to do _my_ work. You are
chosen, and I will pay you the compliment of saying that you fulfilled
your mission in a manner that is singularly out of keeping with the