Mr. Becker—who had given a violent start, and turned rather pale—pulled himself together with an effort.
“Go to the door,” he said. “If it’s any one to see me, say I’m out. Don’t let any one in, on any account.”
Mr. Becker’s tone was firm, but the color did not return to his face, and while his wife went to obey his commands, he glanced about the room nervously, as if for some means of escape, should occasion require it. There was a moment of silence, while the door was being opened, then a suppressed scream from Mrs. Becker, followed by approaching footsteps, and two men walked quietly into the room.
“You are Rudolph Becker, I believe,” remarked the foremost of the two strangers, and he glanced keenly about the room as he spoke.
“That is my name, certainly. To what do I owe the honor of this visit, Mr.—Mr. Lippheim, is it not?”
The visitor nodded.
“Quite correct,” he said. “Fritz Lippheim is my name. I suppose you are aware of the fact that, for several months, you have been under suspicion of being in the pay of the German Government?”
Mr. Becker changed color, but his voice, though less steady than usual, was still calm.
“I believe you are a German yourself,” he said, quietly.
“I was born in Germany,” the other answered, without the slightest hesitation, “but my family moved to this country when I was six years old. I am an American citizen, and for the past few months I have been a member of the United States Secret Service. I and my colleagues have been watching you since this country entered the war. We lost track of you for a few days after you left New London, but I was fortunate in learning your address this morning. Now, Becker, there is no use in making a row. Your game is up. There are two policemen waiting for you on the stairs, and as this is the third floor, you have no chance of escaping by the window.”