"You seem to know a whole lot about this fellow," I remarked idly in the
pause.

"Yes, I do." He smiled a trifle grimly. "In fact, I once came near
getting him; it would have made my fortune, too. But he slipped through
my fingers at the last minute, and if I ever--You see, I'm in the
secret-service myself, Mr. Bayne."

I turned to stare at him.

"The United States service?" I asked.

"Yes."

I nodded. All that had puzzled me was fairly clear in this new light.
Not at all the type of the star agents, those marvelous beings who
figure so romantically in fiction and on the boards, he was yet, I
fancied, a good example of the ruck of his profession, those who did
the every-day detective work which in such a business must be done.
But--Franz von Blenheim? What was my association with the name? Then I
recalled that in the extra I had read as we left harbor there had been
some account of the man's activities in Mexico.

"What I wanted to say was this," Van Blarcom continued in his usual
manner--the manner that I now recognized to be a subtler form of the
policeman's, respectful to those he held for law-abiding, alert and
watchful to detect gentry of any other kind. "This line we're traveling
on now is one the spies use quite a bit. They used to go to London
straight or else to Bordeaux and Paris; but the English and French got