"Thank you, but I don't smoke," said Mr. Croucher, watching the other strike a light.
Just for an instant, as the man turned to shield the flaming match from the wind, it occurred to Mr. Croucher that there was something not altogether unfamiliar in his face and figure. And surely it was not the first time that he had seen that same fat hand with its diamond ring, holding a flaming match and lighting a cigarette in that same way! But he dismissed the idea as impossible. No, this was a perfect stranger.
"Spies? But you amaze me!" the other exclaimed, dropping the dead match. "Have not all alien enemies been interned—as certainly they should be? Or are some of our own beople vorking for Germany?"
This expression of concern for the Empire's safety gave Mr. Croucher confidence.
"No," he declared warmly. "They have not by any means all been interned. That very house along there—Sunnydene—has been a nest of plotting spies all along. Hilliger and that secretary of his—a fellow named Seligmann—had caused no end of mischief before Seligmann was arrested."
A look of eager interest leapt into the stranger's face, which, however, he contrived to conceal from Mr. Croucher.
"So?" he said, controlling his excitement. "They arrested him, did they? Ven vos dat?"
"Two or three nights ago," Mr. Croucher innocently answered. "The night before the bombardment, it was. In the ordinary course of things, I suppose he would have been tried and hanged as a spy. He was imprisoned in Haddisport gaol; but the next morning, when the German battleships were bombarding the town, one of their shells struck the police-station, burying him in the ruins, and he was taken out dead."
"Dear me!" exclaimed the stranger; and with surprising abruptness he saluted and went off, walking very quickly towards the end of the cliff, where he turned inland and disappeared among the bushes beyond Sunnydene.
He had been gone only a few moments when Mark Redisham and Seth Newruck came along, with telescopes under their arms. They were on coast-watching duty.