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she was dressed?”

“In men’s clothes,” said Reck without hesitation. “I told her it wasn’t decent.”

“Yes,” said Hambledon slowly. “Even now the likeness is striking.”

“Do you mean to say that it really happened, and I took this man for Fräulein Marie?”

Hambledon nodded. Reck leaned back in his chair and there was silence for a space.

“It’s getting late,” said Reck, glancing at the clock. “The message will take a little time to

code and transmit, will you leave me alone to do it? I can’t work with anyone in the room. When

I’ve finished I’ll come and tell you, unless you’d like to lend me your gun.”

“I don’t think so, now,” said Hambledon quietly. “I don’t think it’s necessary.”

He picked up the paper from the floor and tore it into small pieces, piled the fragments

into an ash-tray and set light to them.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I lost my temper and I owe you an apology. Now I know how it happened I

don’t think you were so much to blame.”

“Then I—” said Reck, but suddenly covered his face with his hands and burst into tears.

Hambledon amused himself by poking the burning fragments with a match-stick till they were all

consumed, and then patted the old man on the shoulder.

“Pull yourself together,” he said, “it’s all right. I ought to have known you’d never do it

deliberately. Come along to my study and we’ll drink to Bill Saunders, God rest his soul.”

“As you wish,” said Reck, struggling up from his chair, “but that’s the last drink I’ll ever

have, I’m going teetotal. If schnapps could turn me into a traitor once it might again.”

“Great idea,” said Hambledon, opening the door, and if he smiled a trifle incredulously

he did not let Reck see it.

In the study Hambledon rang for Franz, and told him to bring whisky and soda-water;

when the servant returned he said, “If you please, sir, the Fräulein Rademeyer rang up and told

me there would be four to dinner to-night, she had invited two friends for eight o’clock. I was to

tell you, sir.”

“Eight o’clock and it’s seven-thirty now. Who are they, d’you know?”

“The gracious Fräulein did not say, sir.”

“Oh, Lord, that means a stiff shirt, Franz. Black tie.”

“Very good, sir.”

“I’ve got some new stiff shirts, Franz, one of those. The old ones have got whiskers on

the cuffs.”

“As you wish, sir. But the gracious Fräulein took the new ones to mark for you, sir.”

“Snatch them back then, and don’t make difficulties.”

“Very good, sir,” said Franz, and left the room.

“I shall have to pour this down my throat and rush, here’s yours, Reck. Well, Bill

Saunders, rest in peace, I have paid one debt to-day.”

“Bill Saunders,” said Reck solemnly, “and some day I will repay the other, God helping

me.”

“Upon my soul,” said Hambledon, regarding him curiously, “you look as though you

would.”

“Don’t stand there staring at me as though I were a museum specimen in a glass jar,” said

Reck testily, “you’re spoiling my last drink.”

“Heaven forbid. Take it slowly, it’ll last longer. Would you like a sponge to suck it

through?”

“Oh, go and dress up,” said Reck.

Hambledon walked into the sitting-room on the stroke of eight to find Ludmilla already

there with two tall men whose backs were towards him as he entered. “Klaus, my dear,” she said

as they turned, “Mr. Alexander Ogilvie, Mr. Dixon Ogilvie.”

The room went black for an instant before Hambledon’s eyes as he advanced to meet

their guests, when the mist cleared he found himself shaking hands with a white-haired man who

was courteously taking pleasure in the honour of his acquaintance in careful grammatical

German. Hambledon replied suitably and turned to the younger man.

Dixon Ogilvie was not so lanky as of old and his thick brown hair was tidier, but

otherwise his likeness to the schoolboy he had been was so strong that Hambledon expected

instant recognition in return, till he reminded himself firmly how much he himself was scarred

and changed. Still there was a puzzled look in the young man’s eyes as though some bell were

ringing in his memory, so Hambledon became instantly and increasingly German. “What a day,”

he said to himself as they went in to dinner. “First Bill Saunders, and now this.”

Fräulein Rademeyer explained that she had met the Ogilvies at a friend’s house after that

afternoon’s recital, and had been so bold as to ask them to dinner as a faint and inadequate return

for the immense pleasure their music had given her.

Alexander Ogilvie said that they were more than delighted to accept, not only for the

pleasure of making Fräulein Rademeyer’s further acquaintance, but for the privilege of meeting

one who was regarded in Britain as typifying all that was best in the Nazi Party, a remark which

made Hambledon want to giggle. Dixon Ogilvie said nothing but “
Sehr treu
,” at intervals, and

looked amiably at everyone, Hambledon gathered that not even a German prisoners-of-war camp

had been able to teach him the language. In fact, his uncle said so.

“My nephew,” he said, “has not the gift of tongues.”

“
Sehr treu
,” said Dixon.

“It is a great pity, because he misses so much of the amusement to be gained by talking to

strangers in their own tongue,” his uncle went on.

“Any more gifts,” said Ludmilla kindly, “showered by Providence upon your nephew

would be positively unfair.”

Dixon Ogilvie started to say “
Sehr treu
” again, but grasped the sense of the remark at the

last moment and stopped just in time.

“One meets such interesting people when one travels, doesn’t one?” said Ogilvie senior

to Hambledon.

“It is many years,” said Hambledon truthfully, “since I had the means or the time to travel

beyond the boundaries of the Reich.”

Dixon Ogilvie turned inquiring eyes upon him, and asked with difficulty whether he had

ever been in England; Tommy Hambledon looked him straight in the face and said “Never,”

without a blush.

“You should come,” said Alexander Ogilvie, and Ludmilla said, “You hear that, Klaus? I

think I should like to go to England some day.”

“Some day, perhaps, we’ll go,” said Hambledon. “I will take a holiday, some day.”

“Nearly three years ago,” said Alexander Ogilvie, “I travelled from Basle to Paris with a

delightful young couple who were married there the following day, they did me the honour to

ask me to be one of the witnesses. I gathered that it was something of a romance; they had stayed

in the same hotel in Basle for about a fortnight, and I don’t think they had met before. Oh, yes,

they had travelled from Berlin on the same train. Charming fellow named Denton and a

delightful German girl. Apparently a baritone singer with the lovely name of Waltheof Leibowitz

in the hotel orchestra had also realized the lady’s attractions and used to sing at her, so one day

Denton hit him in the eye at one of the afternoon performances. They left for Paris the same

night and were married next day.”

Hambledon roared with laughter, since the detail about the baritone was news to him, and

Dixon said that it was safer to be a pianist.

“Have you ever,” said Hambledon, “met the romantic couple since? One wonders how

such an impulsive marriage would wear.”

“Oh, frequently,” said Ogilvie. “I see quite a lot of them when I’m in town, Dixon knows

them too. Contrary to what one would expect, they are ideally happy.”

“Mrs. Denton is an—is not ordinary,” said Dixon.

“How so?”

“She never asks questions.”

“She deserves to be happy,” said Hambledon enthusiastically.

“I hope they always will be,” said Ludmilla, “they sound delightful. Shall we go in the

other room? Franz, coffee in the drawing-room, please.”

Later on, the talk turned upon music, and Dixon Ogilvie went to the piano to illustrate

some point which he had been discussing with Fräulein Rademeyer, with his uncle acting as

interpreter whenever the younger man got bogged. Hambledon, who was only musical enough to

recognize a tune which he had heard six times before, was not interested and picked up an

evening paper. He found something to read in it and sat down with the unscarred side of his face

towards the pianist; presently the talk ceased as young Ogilvie played to amuse himself, with his

eyes wandering occasionally to the face of his host. He passed from one thing to another, much

as a man will look through a pile of photographs in search of one which will tell him what he

wants to know. Presently Hambledon laid down the paper and stared idly into the distance,

wondering what train of thought had suddenly reawakened a memory of a class of boys with

highly variegated voices singing French songs in approximate unison. The idea was to interest

them in the language by providing a change from the pen of the gardener’s aunt, but he had

always been dubious as to how far the idea was successful. The proper way to teach boys

languages, of course, was to send them to live with a family abroad for a year at least and let

them work, play, eat, drink and sleep in German or Italian or whatever it was. If they went young

enough this method was unfailing, provided a boy had the smallest aptitude—

Hambledon woke from his musings with a start to realize that Dixon Ogilvie had changed

from “
Sur le pont d’Avignon
” to

“
Il etait une bergere
,

Et ran ron ron
,
petit patapon
,

Il etait une bergere

Qui gardait ses moutons
,
ron ron
,

Qui gardait ses moutons
.”

He was playing with infinite delicacy, not looking at Hambledon at all, and presently the

music changed again to another from the same little red French song-book. “
Au clair de la lune
,”

hummed Ogilvie, “
mon ami Pierrot
—”

“He is just doing it to amuse himself,” said Hambledon reassuringly to himself, “it has no

connection with you at all. One tune suggests another from the same period.”

“Yes, it has,” himself insisted. “He tried to remember of whom you reminded him, he

tried through music and he’s got it. You’re unmasked, Thomas Elphinstone Hambledon.”

“Nonsense,” said Hambledon to himself firmly. “You are getting the wind up, your

nerve’s going. You’d better retire and take up crochet.”

Just then a flicker of pure mischief curled the corners of Ogilvie’s mouth as with a few

inspiring chords he broke into that touching ballad of the English home, “Tommy, make room

for your uncle.”

“Blasted cheek,” said Hambledon almost audibly. “That settles it, he does know.”

“School songs,” said Dixon Ogilvie in English, “are rather nice to remember sometimes,”

and looked to his uncle to translate while he played another marching song.

“
Forty years on
,
growing older and older
,

Shorter in wind as in memory long
,”

and finally wound up the concert with the Hymn for the End of Term.

The player rose from his seat to be delightfully thanked by both his hosts, though there

was a gleam in Tommy Hambledon’s eye while he murmured “
Reizend
!
Ergötzlich
!” which

ought to have warned his former pupil.

Less than half an hour after the departure of the guests Hambledon’s telephone rang: he

went to answer it and returned laughing.

“These musicians,” he said, “are really not of this world. You would think they might

read the simple directions for complying with police regulations, wouldn’t you? Not a bit of it.

Then they wonder why they’re tenderly reprimanded.”

“What has happened?” asked Ludmilla.

“Uncle Ogilvie rang up all in a flutter to say that nephew Ogilvie has been arrested,

something wrong with his papers, apparently.”

“Oh, Klaus! How dreadful for them! Can’t you order him to be released?”

“How can I, if he’s broken the law? I am paid a substantial sum quarterly to see that

people keep it. No, I won’t do that, but I have rung up the authorities to ensure that the prisoner

is nicely treated, I told old Ogilvie I would. What is more, I’ll see the boy myself in the morning

and see if I can get him out of this little mess. Probably a small fine will meet the occasion.”

“But, dear Klaus, I can’t bear to think of that nice young man spending the night in jail.”

“Do him good,” said dear Klaus unkindly. “Teach him to respect authority. I’ll give him

Tommy,” he added to himself.

The next morning Dixon Ogilvie was brought before the Chief of Police, who sent the

escort away, looked sternly at the prisoner and said, “Come here.”

Ogilvie advanced to the desk and Hambledon looked him up and down. “You know why

you have been brought here, don’t you?”

“No, sir,” said Ogilvie in English, with exactly the schoolboy’s air of pained innocence.

Hambledon’s sternness wavered, he bit his lip but failed entirely to suppress a grin.

“If you try that on me,” he said in the same language, “I’ll give you two hundred lines,

and they will be legibly written, Ogilvie.”

“Oh, but, sir—”

“Come off it. No, listen, Ogilvie. You’ve stumbled on a secret which is literally a matter

of life and death to me. They know at the F.O. in London that Hambledon is still alive and doing