"Not I," said Cavanaugh, from the depths of the leather lounge.
"Not guilty," said Stewart.
"Well I have, but I can't remember now just where." Grant's reflections were interrupted by a knock on the door. "See who's there will you, Stewart?"
The door was opened to admit a young man of business-like appearance.
"Good evening, Mr. Grant. I'm the cashier of the —— Bank."
Grant motioned him to sit down but he declined. "No, I won't stay, my errand will just take a moment. If you will remember, some time ago you asked us to allow you to see any checks that Franz von Papen issued on our bank. Here is one that I think will interest you." He slipped a check from his pocket and handed it to Grant.
"To J.S. Slakberg," Grant read. "Five thousand dollars!"
"There's your Slakberg again," observed Cavanaugh.
"Yes," said Grant, slowly studying the endorsement of the check. "Now I've got him. Or at least his writing. He's the same merry little forger we trailed all the way from Chicago to Berlin on the Weymouth case—and then they refused extradition. Call a taxi. I'm going to the A.T.R. plant."
Work at the A.T.R. Munition plant was booming. Slakberg had cause for satisfaction as he stood in the doorway of one of the shell loading rooms watching the trucks loaded with shells rumbling past. And the room was filled with the rumble and roar of activity as men and women worked at high speed, pitiably ignorant that they were laboring in reality not for France but for scheming, conniving, treacherous Germany.