"Through or over, sir."
The Intelligence Officer displayed his mirthful teeth:
"Thanks. I'm also sending three of my own people through the wire. They'll have their papers in order—here are the duplicates I issued; they'll have their photographs on the originals."
He fished out a batch of papers and laid them on Recklow's desk.
"Who are these people?" demanded Recklow.
"Mine, sir."
"Oh."
There fell a silence; but Recklow did not examine the papers; he merely pocketed them.
"I think that's all," said the Intelligence Officer. "You know my name—Captain Herts. In case you wish to communicate just wire my department at Toul. They'll forward anything if I'm away on duty."
He saluted: Recklow followed him to the door, saw him mount his motor-cycle—a battered American machine—stood there watching until he was out of sight.