Then Bernard, in crisp, low sentences, told the girls and Lockhart exactly what he believed. The wind howled outside and hissing drops of rain fell upon the window-pane. The fire crackled on the hearth, the smoke of our cigarettes rose in grey spirals in the pleasant, lamp-lit room. It was a strange night, how fraught with consequences to England, the two beautiful girls, the little cripple, the third-rate schoolmaster, and even the young naval officer himself, did not know!
"It has long been suspected," my brother concluded, and his voice sank almost to a whisper, "that one master-mind has been behind all the German espionage, both before and during the war. There is in existence, our Intelligence Department has had indubitable evidence of it, a King of Spies, so subtle of brain, so fertile in resource, that, even now, we cannot find him. We do not know for certain, but it is rumoured that this man's real name is Graf Botho von Vedal, though what name he passes under now none can say."
Doris's eyes clouded. She seemed as if she was making an effort of memory.
"Was he once 'Wirklicher Geheimrat'—Privy Councillor to the German Emperor?" she asked.
Bernard stared at her. "So I am told," he said. "What do you know about him?"
"I can't tell you," she answered with a dazed look upon her face—"some childish memory. The name was familiar. My sister and I speak German as well as we speak English, you know."
"If I could put my finger upon that man," my brother continued, "then one of the gravest perils to which England lies open at the moment would be removed."
"Where is he?" Lockhart asked, speaking like a man in a dream.
We all looked at each other, and there was dawning consciousness and horror in every eye.
"Yes," came from my brother at length, and as he spoke he withdrew one of Dickson's little photographs from his pocket—I hadn't seen him put it there—"and also, what is Admiral Kiderlen-Waechter doing in England?"