British people and with the colossal indemnity, which it had been planned to exact from our country, as his monetary reward. If he failed, his life was to pay the forfeit. Not only his life was to be sacrificed, but his lands and property were to be confiscated, his family imprisoned, degraded and exiled. It was, I think, the greatest, the most stupendous gamble ever known. And the gambler lost! By the merest chance, by pure accident, by a coincidence which no human being could have foreseen, his messages—the vital message—came into my hands and, through a tiny mistake, an error which might have passed a thousand eyes unnoticed, the conspirator—this gambler in nations and life—was betrayed and all his efforts, his widespread plots, his carefully organized plans came to nothing. But yet he escaped. Evidently he considered a gambling debt one that could be disregarded. His country, or rather his emperor, had overlooked a most important matter. He had failed to provide for getting hold of the gambler to collect his debt. No doubt, had Germany been victorious, some emissary of the Kaiser would eventually have found this man and would have
exacted payment in full. But with Germany’s downfall he was safe—at least as long as he remained out of Germany—and so completely did he efface himself that we came to the conclusion that he had committed suicide. But, gentlemen, I am willing to wager my reputation that he still lives. I have evidence which to my mind is absolutely conclusive that he is at the bottom of this Bolshevist propaganda, this influx of liquor, this wave of crime.”
Amazed, the others gazed at Mr. Henderson as he paused after this surprising announcement.
“Jove! That’s some statement!” cried one. “If you’re right, Henderson, we’ve got our work cut out for us. I can see why he might do it though. I know who you mean—there’s no use mentioning names even here. And if it is he I can understand why he has picked on Uncle Sam. But, by Jove, old man, if ’tis he, then watch your step! He’s no man to forgive or forget. He’ll have his eye on you and mark you for a come-back, I’ll wager.”
Henderson smiled grimly. “He has already,” he remarked dryly. “That’s my proof that he’s
the man. Like all of his kind he’s so confoundedly conceited, so cocksure of himself, so puffed up with his own importance that, sooner or later, he’s bound to overdo himself. He cannot resist the temptation to let some one know what a big toad in the puddle he is. He must boast or bust and such men always hang themselves if you give them rope enough. Here’s the rope he’s hung himself with!”
As he finished, Mr. Henderson tossed a sheet of paper on the table and the others crowded close to examine it.
To the casual observer, it would have meant little. A sheet of ordinary note paper with a single line written by a typewriter across it. There was no date, no signature, merely the words: “Remember Mercedes and Garcia.” But to these keen-eyed, square-jawed, quiet men those words carried grave import. To them, it meant more than pages of writing might have carried.
“I guess you’re right,” exclaimed Selwin. “That is, as far as his being alive and this coming from him is concerned. But why do you think he or this has any connection with the other matters?”
“Another coincidence—or perhaps you’ll say imagination,” replied Mr. Henderson. “Examine this pamphlet—the latest effusion of our red propagandists. Do you notice anything peculiar about it?”