“Pardon me!  You are mistaken; I am not a spy.  But it is wonderful; it is quite wonderful—­”

The man’s face was alight with discovery, with an alert pleasure that awaited recognition.

“My dear fellow, you really become annoying,” and Armitage again thrust his hand into his trousers pocket.  “I should hate awfully to appeal to the police; but you must not crowd me too far.”

The man seemed moved by deep feeling, and his eyes were bright with excitement.  His hands clasped tightly the railing that protected the glass window of the book shop.  As Armitage turned away impatiently the man ejaculated huskily, as though some over-mastering influence wrung the words from him: 

“Don’t you know me?  I am Oscar—­don’t you remember me, and the great forest, where I taught you to shoot and fish?  You are—­”

He bent toward Armitage with a fierce insistence, his eyes blazing in his eagerness to be understood.

John Armitage turned again to the window, leaned lightly upon the iron railing and studied the title of a book attentively.  He was silently absorbed for a full minute, in which the man who had followed him waited.  Taking his cue from Armitage’s manner he appeared to be deeply interested in the bookseller’s display; but the excitement still glittered in his eyes.

Armitage was thinking swiftly, and his thoughts covered a very wide range of time and place as he stood there.  Then he spoke very deliberately and coolly, but with a certain peremptory sharpness.

“Go ahead of me to the New American and wait in the office until I come.”

The man’s hand went to his hat.

“None of that!”

Armitage arrested him with a gesture.  “My name is Armitage,—­John Armitage,” he said.  “I advise you to remember it.  Now go!”

The man hurried away, and Armitage slowly followed.

It occurred to him that the man might be of use, and with this in mind he returned to the New American, got his key from the office, nodded to his acquaintance of the street and led the way to the elevator.

Armitage put aside his coat and hat, locked the hall door, and then, when the two stood face to face in his little sitting-room, he surveyed the man carefully.

“What do you want?” he demanded bluntly.

He took a cigarette from a box on the table, lighted it, and then, with an air of finality, fixed his gaze upon the man, who eyed him with a kind of stupefied wonder.  Then there flashed into the fellow’s bronzed face something of dignity and resentment.  He stood perfectly erect with his felt hat clasped in his hand.  His clothes were cheap, but clean, and his short coat was buttoned trimly about him.

“I want nothing, Mr. Armitage,” he replied humbly, speaking slowly and with a marked German accent.

“Then you will be easily satisfied,” said Armitage.  “You said your name was—?”

“Oscar—­Oscar Breunig.”