his
Steinheim had already, by an ingenious device, secured from a private of
engineers named James Ward--whom I have seen--certain information
regarding the new boom defences of Portsmouth Harbour. Ward, whose home
is at Great Weldon, suddenly discovered to his horror that the man was a
German spy, followed him to Guildford, attacked him in the train, and
left him for dead. For that reason Steinheim has refused to make any
statement to the police. When I saw Ward a week ago, he explained how
innocently he had fallen into the trap which the cunning Steinheim had
laid for him."

"The evidence you have here in black and white will surely prove
convincing," I remarked. "You will go and see Steinheim again, I
suppose? He is still in the hospital."

"No. We shall remain silent. To show our hand will only place Hartmann
on the alert. To do that is needless. We have prevented the plan of our
new submarine going to Germany, and for the present that is sufficient."

And my friend drew up the blind and gazed out upon the rosy dawn across
the water.

CHAPTER III

THE BACK-DOOR OF ENGLAND

"Well, that's rather curious," I remarked, closing the door of the old
oak-panelled smoking-room at Metfield Park, and returning to where my
friend Ray Raymond was seated.

"Was anyone outside the door?" he asked, quickly on the alert.

"Mrs. Hill-Mason's German maid. You remember, Vera pointed her out
yesterday."

"H'm! and she was listening--after every one else has gone to bed!" he
remarked. "Yes, Jack, it's curious."

It was past one o'clock in the morning. Two months had passed since the
affair down at Portsmouth, but we had not been inactive. We were sitting
before the great open fireplace where the logs were blazing, after the
rest of the men had taken their candles and retired, and had been
exchanging confidences in ignorance of the fact that the door remained
ajar. I had, however, detected the _frou-frou_ of a woman's skirt, and
creeping across to the door had seen the maid of one of the guests
disappearing down the stone passage which led to the great hall now in
darkness.

Metfield Park, three miles from Melton Constable, in Norfolk, the seat
of the Jocelyns, was a fine old Tudor place in the centre of a splendid
park, where the pheasant shooting was always excellent. Harry Jocelyn,
the heir, had been with us at Balliol, hence Ray and I usually received
invitations to the shooting parties. On this occasion, howeve