“Information Department, Bureau Twelve, password—­’The Day is coming,’” Seaman continued, dropping his voice.

His listener shook his head and smiled with the puzzled ignorance of a child.

“The gentleman mistakes me for some one else,” he replied.  “I know nothing of these things.”

Seaman sat and studied this obstinate visitor for several minutes without speaking, his finger tips pressed together, his eyebrows gently contracted.  His vis-a-vis endured this scrutiny without flinching, calm, phlegmatic, the very prototype of the bourgeois German of the tradesman class.

“Do you propose,” Dominey enquired, “to stay in these parts long?”

“One or two days—­a week, perhaps,” was the indifferent answer.  “I have a cousin in Norwich who makes toys.  I love the English country.  I spend my holiday here, perhaps.”

“Just so,” Seaman muttered grimly.  “The English country under a foot of snow!  So you have nothing more to say to me, Johann Wolff?”

“I have executed my mission to his Excellency,” was the apologetic reply.  “I am sorry to have caused displeasure to you, Herr Seaman.”

The latter rose to his feet.  Dominey had already turned towards the door.

“You will spend the night here, of course, Mr. Miller?” he invited.  “I dare say Mr. Seaman would like to have another talk with you in the morning.”

“I shall gladly spend the night here, your Excellency,” was the polite reply.  “I do not think that I have anything to say, however, which would interest your friend.”

“You are making a great mistake, Wolff,” Seaman declared angrily.  “I am your superior in the Service, and your attitude towards me is indefensible.”

“If the gentleman would only believe,” the culprit begged, “that he is mistaking me for some one else!”

There was trouble in Seaman’s face as the two men made their way to the front of the house and trouble in his tone as he answered his companion’s query.

“What do you think of that fellow and his visit?”

“I do not know what to think, but there is a great deal that I know,” Seaman replied gravely.  “The man is a spy, a favourite in the Wilhelmstrasse and only made use of on important occasions.  His name is Wolff—­Johann Wolff.”

“And this story of his?”

“You ought to be the best judge of that.”

“I am,” Dominey assented confidently.  “Without the shadow of a doubt I threw the body of the man I killed into the Blue River and watched it sink.”

“Then the story is a fake,” Seaman decided.  “For some reason or other we have come under the suspicion of our own secret service.”

Seaman, as they emerged into the hall, was summoned imperiously to her side by the Princess Eiderstrom.  Dominey disappeared for a moment and returned presently, having discarded some of his soaked shooting garments.  He was followed by his valet, bearing a note upon a silver tray.