A little later Williams, feeling the need for iced beer and cheese sandwiches, rang the bell for Fritz. When he received no answer he descended to the kitchen with the intention of buffeting soundly a man who could so forget his duties to his superiors. Mr. Williams found only the bare bed. Fritz, with his bedding, had disappeared.
A front door unlocked when instructions had been exact as to the necessity of its careful fastening at all hours, brought uneasy conjectures to his mind. It was only so long as he and his companions were invested with the immunity of neutrality that he was of value to his native land. Of late he had been conscious of Secret Service activities.
Obedient to his training, Williams instantly reported the matter to the thin, acid-faced man under whose instructions he had been commanded to act.
“They have taken Fritz away,” he cried.
“Who?” demanded his superior.
“The Secret Service,” said Williams wildly. He was now beginning to ascribe aggressive skill to a service at which he had formerly sneered.
Going down to the kitchen, they were startled by a feeble cry from the cellar. There they discovered the frightened Fritz, cut about the face from the bottles he had broken in his fall. His injuries gave him less concern than the admission he had slept at his post. He was, therefore, of no aid to them.
“I do not know,” he repeated as they questioned him. “There must have been many of them. One man alone could not do it.”
The thin man turned to Williams: “This O’Sheill is in danger. Arm yourself and go to his hotel. It will go badly with you if harm comes to him.”