"Gwynn," he said to the waiter, "this man, Guild, seems to be harmless. He's known at the American Embassy. He's an American in the real estate business in New York. It's true that Dart telegraphed from Ostend that Guild came to our lines in a German military automobile under a white flag. But he told a straight story. I'll run out to Westheath, and if his business there is clean and above-board, I think we can give him a clean bill of health."
Gwynn said, slowly: "I don't like the way he questioned me last night. Besides, a sovereign is too much even for an American."
"He might have been afraid of robbery."
"He was afraid of something."
"Very well. We've passage on the boat if necessary. I'll go out to Westheath anyway. If I don't care for what he is doing out there we can hold him on the dock."
"Another thing," mused Gwynn. "The Edmeston Agency may be quite all right, but the man's name is Grätz."
"He's been under scrutiny. He seems to be all right."
"All the same—his name is all wrong. What was that chauffeur's name?"
"Bush."
"Busch?"