He had continued to poke about in the darkness as he was speaking.  In another corner he had discovered two ordinary telephone receivers.

“Connected up with something, too, by George!” he ejaculated.

Evidently some one had tapped the regular telephone wires running into the house, had run extensions into the little storeroom, and was prepared to overhear everything that was said either to or by those in the house.

Further examination disclosed that there were two separate telephone systems running into Brixton’s house.  One, with its many extensions, was used by the household and by the housekeeper; the other was the private wire which led, ultimately, down into Brixton’s den.  No sooner had he discovered it than Kennedy became intensely interested.  For the moment he seemed entirely to forget the electric-light wires and became absorbed in tracing out the course of the telephone trunk-line and its extensions.  Continued search rewarded him with the discovery that both the household line and the private line were connected by hastily improvised extensions with the two receivers he had discovered in the out-of-the-way corner of a little dark storeroom.

“Don’t disturb a thing,” remarked Kennedy, cautiously picking up even the burnt matches he had dropped in his hasty search.  “We must devise some means of catching the eavesdropper red handed.  It has all the marks of being an inside job.”

We had completed our investigation of the basement without attracting any attention, and Craig was careful to make it seem that in entering the library we came from the den, not from the cellar.  As we waited in the big leather chairs Kennedy was sketching roughly on a sheet of paper the plan of the house, drawing in the location of the various wires.

The door opened.  We had expected John Brixton.  Instead, a tall, spare foreigner with a close-cropped moustache entered.  I knew at once that it must be Count Wachtmann, although I had never seen him.

“Ah, I beg your pardon,” he exclaimed in English which betrayed that he had been under good teachers in London.  “I thought Miss Brixton was here.”

“Count Wachtmann?” interrogated Kennedy, rising.

“The same,” he replied easily, with a glance of inquiry at us.

“My friend and I are from the Star” said Kennedy.

“Ah!  Gentlemen of the press?” He elevated his eyebrows the fraction of an inch.  It was so politely contemptuous that I could almost have throttled him.

“We are waiting to see Mr. Brixton,” explained Kennedy.

“What is the latest from the Near East?” Wachtmann asked, with the air of a man expecting to hear what he could have told you yesterday if he had chosen.

There was a movement of the portieres, and a woman entered.  She stopped a moment.  I knew it was Miss Brixton.  She had recognised Kennedy, but her part was evidently to treat him as a total stranger.