“I don't remember him. Of course, I can't keep track of the men. We'll get rid of him.”
Mr. Dunbar eyed him.
“That's the best thing you can think of?”
“I don't want him round, do I?”
“Nine of you men out of ten say that. You'd turn him loose and so warn him. Not only that, but he'll be off on his devil's work somewhere. Perhaps here. Perhaps elsewhere. And we want him where we can find him. See here, Mr. Spencer, d'you ever hear of counter-espionage?”
Clayton never had, but the term explained itself.
“Set a spy to watch a spy,” said Dunbar. “Let him think he's going on fine. Find his confederates. Let them get ready to spring something. And then—get them. Remember,” he added with sarcasm, “we're still neutral. You can't lock a man up because he goes around yelling 'Down with capital!' The whole country is ready to yell it with him. And, even if you find him with a bomb under his coat, labeled 'made in Germany,' it's hard to link Germans up with the thing. He can say that he always buys his bombs in Germany. That they make the best bombs in the world. That he likes the way they pack 'em, and their polite trade methods.”
Clayton listened, thinking hard.
“We have a daughter of Klein's here. She is my son's secretary.”
Dunbar glanced at him quickly, but his eyes were on the window.