a pretty strict watch going, and now it's easier for them to slip into
France through Italy, by Modane. They sail for Naples mostly, do you
see? And--you won't repeat this?--it's fairly sure that when Franz
von Blenheim sends his government a report of what he's done in Mexico
against us, he'll send it by an agent who travels on this line and lands
in Italy and then slips into Germany by way of Switzerland."

We were drifting slowly into the harbor of Gibraltar, the rock looming
over us through the blackness, a gigantic mountain, a mass of tiered and
serried lights. Search-lights, too, shot out like swords, focused on us,
and swept us as we crept forward between dimly visible, anchored
craft. The throbbing of our engines ceased. A launch chugged toward us,
bringing the officers of the port. I watched, pleased with the scene,
and rather taken with my companion's discourse. It was not unlike a dime
novel of my youth.

"Do you mean you've been sent on this line to watch for one of
Blenheim's agents?" I inquired.

"No. I'm sent for some work on the other side--and I'm not telling you
what it is, either," he rejoined. "What I meant was that a man has to
be careful, traveling on these ships. They watch close. They have to.
Haven't you noticed that whenever two or three of us get to talking, a
steward comes snooping round? Well, I suppose you wouldn't, it not being
your business; but I have. We're watched all the time; and if we're
wise, we'll mind our step. Take you, for instance. You're a good
American, eh? And yet some spy might fool you with a cute story and get
your help and maybe play you for a sucker on the other side. I saw that
happen once. It was a nice young chap, and a pretty girl fooled him--got
him into a peck of trouble. What you want to remember is that good spies