It was Berliner. He had chosen the moment when the station was most crowded to make his getaway. Oblivious to the presence of the motion picture operator, he had stopped for a moment to say good-by to another man, his brother, as Gard thought. The two had spoken a few words and parted.
"I wonder," soliloquized Gard, "what those two men said to each other."
Then he thought of Jane Gates, the Lily Maid, the deaf copyist at headquarters, the cameo-faced girl, best loved of the special agents.
"The Lily Maid might read the lips of those unconscious motion picture actors," he thought. "They are right out in front."
So it happened that the deaf typist got a half-holiday and she and Gard spent it at the picture show, where her lack of the sense of hearing in no way detracted from her enjoyment.
The scene at the station came on. Gard pointed out the two men in the foreground, who, fortunately, were facing the machine. The deaf girl picked their words from their lips and repeated them in the hollow tones of those who have learned to talk without hearing.
"Send Margaret to London in three months," the customs broker was saying. "I shall not write."
"But how shall we know of your whereabouts?" the brother asked.
"You will not know. I take no chances," was the answer.
"But where are you going?"