I eyed him with curiosity. He was inscrutable, this quiet, alert,
efficient-looking man. Take, for instance, his present manner, half
self-assured, half respectfully apologetic--what grade in life did it
fit?

"Well, here I am," I said briefly as I struck a match.

"I've thought it over a good bit," he went on, apparently in
self-justification. "I don't know how you will take it, but I'll chance
it just the same. If I don't give you a hint, you don't get a square
deal. That's my attitude. Did you ever hear of Franz von Blenheim, Mr.
Bayne?"

"Eh?" The question seemed distinctly irrelevant--and yet where had I
heard that name, not very long ago?

"The German secret-service agent. The best in the world, they say." A
sort of reluctant admiration showed in Van Blarcom's face. "There
isn't any one that can get him; he does what he wants, goes where he
likes--the United States, England, France, Russia--and always gets away
safe. You'd think he was a conjurer to read what he does sometimes.
A whole country will be looking for him, and he takes some one else's
passport, puts on a disguise, and good-by--he's gone! That's Franz
von Blenheim. No; that's just an outline of him. And on pretty good
authority, he's in Washington now."

Mr. Van Blarcom, I reflected, was surely coming out of his shell; this
was quite a monologue with which he was favoring me. It was dark now;
our lights were flaring. Being in a friendly port's shelter, we burned
electricity to-night.