“Siege?” I repeated incredulously.  “Impossible.  Why, only this morning I was reading about his negotiations with a foreign syndicate of bankers from southeastern Europe for a ten-million-dollar loan to relieve the money stringency there.  Surely there must be some mistake in all this.  In fact, as I recall it, one of the foreign bankers who is trying to interest him is that Count Wachtmann who, everybody says, is engaged to Miss Brixton, and is staying at the house at Woodrock.  Craig, are you sure nobody is hoaxing you?”

“Read that,” he replied laconically, handing me a piece of thin letter-paper such as is often used for foreign correspondence.  “Such letters have been coming to Mr. Brixton, I understand, every day.”

The letter was in a cramped foreign scrawl: 

John Brixton, Woodrock, New York.

American dollars must not endanger the peace of Europe.  Be warned in time.  In the name of liberty and progress we have raised the standard of conflict without truce or quarter against reaction.  If you and the American bankers associated with you take up these bonds you will never live to receive the first payment of interest.

Thered brotherhood of the Balkans.

I looked up inquiringly.  “What is the Red Brotherhood?” I asked.

“As nearly as I can make out,” replied Kennedy, “it seems to be a sort of international secret society.  I believe it preaches the gospel of terror and violence in the cause of liberty and union of some of the peoples of southeastern Europe.  Anyhow, it keeps its secrets well.  The identity of the members is a mystery, as well as the source of its funds, which, it is said, are immense.”

“And they operate so secretly that Brixton can trust no one about him?” I asked.

“I believe he is ill,” explained Craig.  “At any rate, he evidently suspects almost every one about him except his daughter.  As nearly as I could gather, however, he does not suspect Wachtmann himself.  Miss Brixton seemed to think that there were some enemies of the Count at work.  Her father is a secretive man.  Even to her, the only message he would entrust was that he wanted to see me immediately.”

At Woodrock we took our time in getting off the train.  Miss Brixton, a tall, dark-haired, athletic girl just out of college, had preceded us, and as her own car shot out from the station platform we leisurely walked down and entered another bearing the number she had given Kennedy.

We seemed to be expected at the house.  Hardly had we been admitted through the door from the porte-cochere, than we were led through a hall to a library at the side of the house.  From the library we entered another door, then down a flight of steps which must have brought us below an open courtyard on the outside, under a rim of the terrace in front of the house for a short distance to a point where we descended three more steps.