“Shut the door!” snapped Downs from a victor’s perch on the astounded man’s chest. “Help roll him over.” The man was turned on his face and steel circles clinked upon his wrists.
“Who are you?... What does this mean?” the man said, furiously.
“I’m not sure,” said Downs, “till we take a look-see. Maybe it’s just an outrage on a respectable business man. If it is you may expect profuse apologies.”
A huge safe stood open invitingly. Downs pounced upon it, found it full of little drawers, and the drawers laden with papers, with card indices and the like—and all covered with German script. “Um!...” he said. “Read German?”
“Yes,” said Potter.
“I don’t. Talk it, but don’t read to speak of. Have a look.”
Potter unfolded a document, read it, shrugged his shoulders.
“No apologies needed,” he said to the handcuffed man. “These,” he said to Downs, “seem to be reports from agents—reports of their movements.” He examined a card from an adjoining drawer. “These are the agents, all neatly indexed, with the salaries paid,” he said. “The Germans are a systematic and efficient people.”
“They will stick to system,” said Downs, with a chuckle. “It’s a great labor-saver for us.”
“When you find the system,” said Potter, with a chuckle.