Nyoda laughed and went on with the ceremony as mapped out beforehand.  “And in further consideration of the great service you have rendered your country, this court has decided to change your name from Kaiser Bill to Sherlock Holmes, as more fitting your great detective skill.  Never again will you hear the hateful name of ‘Kaiser Bill’ applied to yourself.  Sherlock Holmes, we salute you!” The Winnebagos raised their right hands in formal salute.

“Furthermore,” continued Nyoda, “we have decided——­”

“There he goes!” shrieked Sahwah, as the newly christened Sherlock Holmes broke away from their flattering midst, cleared the fence at a bound and made straight for the pile of bricks that had started his mouth to watering.

“He’ll get run over if he doesn’t look out!” shouted the Captain as a truck loaded with sand rapidly approached the brick pile.  “Hi, there, look out!” he called warningly.

But the warning came too late, for Sherlock Holmes was already under the wheels, with the whole weight of the truck on top of him, and by the time it had come to a stop he was a limp, lifeless wreck of a goat.

The Winnebagos flocked out into the street and looked at his remains, and almost wept as poor old Hercules heartbrokenly lifted up the body of his slain darling.  The Italian laborers threw down their tools and gathered around them and a crowd collected from all sides.

“Why didn’t you turn aside?” exclaimed the Captain to the driver of the truck, who seemed to be the only one not sorry about the accident, and muttered angrily in answer to the Captain’s question.  He looked defiantly at the Winnebagos and at Hercules fondling the dead goat, and then he actually laughed at them.  “Serves the beast right,” he muttered, and Sahwah, looking indignantly at him, saw that his left hand reached up for his ear, pulled down the lobe and released it with a jerk.  A little electric thrill went through Sahwah at the sight of that gesture.  There was only one person she had ever seen do that.  That person was the artist, Eugene Prince.  In spite of the black matted hair that covered the man’s forehead, in spite of the black beard that covered the lower half of his face, the tattered cap, the blue shirt and shabby working clothes covered with red brick dust, something seemed to tell her that this was the man the federal officers were now searching for high and low.

“That’s the spy!” she shouted at the top of her voice, to the utter amazement of the others, but the driver started as if he had been shot.

Immediately Slim and the Captain jumped on him and he fought like a tiger to get free.  Others in the crowd came to the rescue and before long Waldemar von Oldenbach was safely locked up, minus his black wig and false beard, awaiting the arrival of Agent Sanders.  With his native cunning he had decided that the safest place for him was to stay right in Oakwood after the discovery of the contents of his