"Herr Seaman was the name, I understood."

"It is a very good name," Seaman scoffed. "Look here and think."

He undid his coat and waistcoat and displayed a plain vest of chamois
leather. Attached to the left-hand side of it was a bronze decoration,
with lettering and a number. Miller stared at it blankly and shook his
head.

"Information Department, Bureau Twelve, password--'The Day is coming,'"
Seaman continued, dropping his voice.

His listener shook his head and smiled with the puzzled ignorance of a
child.

"The gentleman mistakes me for some one else," he replied. "I know
nothing of these things."

Seaman sat and studied this obstinate visitor for several minutes
without speaking, his finger tips pressed together, his eyebrows gently
contracted. His vis-a-vis endured this scrutiny without flinching, calm,
phlegmatic, the very prototype of the bourgeois German of the tradesman
class.

"Do you propose," Dominey enquired, "to stay in these parts long?"

"One or two days--a week, perhaps," was the indifferent answer. "I have
a cousin in Norwich who makes toys. I love the English country. I spend
my holiday here, perhaps."