like that. And did you catch his accent?"

"Phony," the television man pronounced. "The French accent of a Greek
waiter in a fake French restaurant. In the Bronx."

"Not quite. The pronunciation was all right for French accent, but the
cadence, the way the word-sounds were strung together, was German."

The elderly man looked at the colonel keenly. "I see you're
Intelligence," he mentioned. "Think he might be somebody up your alley,
Colonel?"

The colonel shook his head. "I doubt it. There are agents of unfriendly
powers in this country--a lot of them, I'm sorry to have to say. But
they don't speak accented English, and they don't dress eccentrically.
You know there's an enemy agent in a crowd, pick out the most normally
American type in sight and you usually won't have to look further."

The train ground to a stop. A young couple with hand-luggage came in and
sat at one end of the car, waiting until other accommodations could be
found for them. After a while, it started again. I dallied over my
drink, and then got up and excused myself, saying that I wanted to turn
in early.

In the next car behind, I met the porter who had come in just before the
stop. He looked worried, and after a moment's hesitation, he spoke to
me.

"Pardon, sir. The man in the club-car who got off at Harrisburg; did you
know him?"