"That all?"
"Pretty well," the poet admitted, "but there's espionage work going on there every afternoon."'
"Sounds probable," the other agreed. "Now what do you want me to do? I can't raid the place without more information."
"Lend me two men and I'll take the risk of something turning up," the poet begged.
Sir Horace scribbled a few lines on a piece of paper.
"Get out with you," he said. "My regards to your aunt. Show this to the orderly in Room C and he'll give you a couple of plainclothes policemen."
The poet gripped Aaron Rodd's arm triumphantly as they stepped outside.
"A man!" he exclaimed. "A man at last!" ...
It was two days before anything fresh happened. Then, about half-past five in the afternoon, Aaron Rodd and the poet, who had wandered round by the front of the Northumberland Court to see that their watchers were in position, almost ran into the arms of a huge, roughly dressed man, with close-cropped brown beard, a man who looked ill-at-ease in his clothes and walked with a rolling gait.
"My God!" the poet muttered. "It's the Dutchman! Come on, Aaron."