ave been his job. He'd have towed Cecil to his club, fed him
Martinis and vintage stuff until he couldn't have told a 32-inch shell
from an ashcan; handed him a smooth spiel about capacity, strain tests,
shipping facilities, and so on, and dumped him at his hotel entirely
satisfied that all was well, without having been off Fifth Avenue.

The best I can do, though, is to steer him into a flossy Broadway grill,
shove him the wine-card with the menu, and tell him to go the limit.

He orders a pot of tea and a combination chop.

"Oh, say, have another guess," says I. "What's the matter with that
squab caserole and something in a silver ice-bucket?"

"Thank you, no," says he. "I--er--my nerves, you know."

I couldn't deny that he looked it, either. Such a high-strung, jumpy
party he is, always glancin' around suspicious. And that wanderin' store
eye of his, scoutin' about on its own hook independent of the other, sort
of adds to the general sleuthy effect. Kind of weird, too.

But I tries to forget that and get down to business.

"Surprisin' ain't it," says I, "how many of them shells can be turned out
by--"

"S-s-s-sh!" says he, glancin' cautious at the omnibus-boy comin' to set
up our table.

"Eh?" says I, after we've been supplied with rolls and sweet butter and
ice water. "Why the panic?"

"Spies!" he whispers husky.

"What, him?" says I, starin' after the innocent-lookin' party in the
white apron.

"There's no telling," says Cecil. "One can't be too careful. And it
will be best, I think, for you to address me simply as Mr. Fothergill.
As for the--er--goods you are producing, you might speak of them
as--er--hams, you know."

I expect I gawped at him some foolish. Think of springin' all that
mystery dope right on Broadway! And, as I'm none too anxious to talk
about shells anyway, we don't have such a chatty luncheon. I'm just as
satisfied. I wanted time to think what I should exhibit as the main
works.

That Bayonne plant wa'n't much to look at, just a few sheds and a spur
track. I hadn't been to the Yonkers foundry, but I had an idea it wa'n't
much more impressive. Course, there was the joint on East 153d Street.
I knew that well enough, for I'd helped negotiate the lease.

It had been run by a firm that was buildin' some new kind of marine
motors, but had gone broke. Used to be a stove works, I believe.

Anyway, it's only a two-story cement-block affair, jammed in between some
car-ba