A spy of his succeeded in learning more than any of our people, and
without being arrested, too."

"And who is this singular person?" Hamel asked.

"A man of whom you, I suppose, never heard," Kinsley replied. "His
name is Fentolin--Miles Fentolin--and he lives somewhere down in
Norfolk. He is one of the strangest characters that ever lived,
stranger than any effort of fiction I ever met with. He was in the
Foreign Office once, and every one was predicting for him a brilliant
career. Then there was an accident--let me see, it must have been
some six or seven years ago--and he had to have both his legs
amputated. No one knows exactly how the accident happened, and there
was always a certain amount of mystery connected with it. Since then
he has buried himself in the country. I don't think, in fact, that he
ever moves outside his place; but somehow or other he has managed to
keep in touch with all the political movements of the day."

"Fentolin," Hamel repeated softly to himself. "Tell me, whereabouts
does he live?"

"Quite a wonderful place in Norfolk, I believe, somewhere near the
sea. I've forgotten the name, for the moment. He has had wireless
telegraphy installed; he has a telegraph office in the house,
half-a-dozen private wires, and they say that he spends an immense
amount of money keeping in touch with foreign politics. His excuse
is that he speculates largely, as I dare say he does; but just
lately," Kinsley went on more slowly, "he has been an object of
anxiety to all of us. It was he who sent the first agent out to
Germany, to try and discover at least where this conference was to