continue to enjoy comparative immunity. But the trouble was the passport
question. That reminded me.

I must get rid of Semlin's passport. As I walked along I tore it into
tiny pieces, dropping each fragment at a good interval from the other.
It cost me something to do it, for a passport is always useful to flash
in the eyes of the ignorant. But this passport was dangerous. It might
denounce me to a man who would not otherwise recognize me.

I had some difficulty in finding In den Zelten. I had to ask the way,
once of a postman and once of a wounded soldier who was limping along
with crutches. Finally, I found it, a narrowish street running off a
corner of the great square in front of the Reichstag. No. 2 was the
second house on the right.

I had no plan. Nevertheless, I walked boldly upstairs. There was but one
flat on each floor. At the third story I halted, rather out of breath,
in front of a door with a small brass plate inscribed with the name
"Eugen Kore." I rang the bell boldly.

An elderly man-servant opened the door.

"Is Herr Eugen Kore at home?" I asked.

The man looked at me suspiciously.

"Has the gentleman an appointment?" he said.

"No," I replied.

"Then the Herr will not receive the gentleman," came the answer, and the
man made as though to close the door.

I had an inspiration.

"A moment!" I cried, and I added the word "Achilles" in a low voice.

The servant opened the door wide to me.

"Why didn't you say that at once?" he said. "Please step in. I will see
if the Herr can receive you."

He led the way through a hall into a sitting-room and left me there. The
place was a perfect museum of art treasures, old Dutch and Italian
masters on the walls, some splendid Florentine chests, a fine old
dresser loaded with ancient pewter. On a mantelshelf was an
extraordinary collection of old keys, each with its label. "Key of the
fortress of Spandau, 1715." "Key of the Postern Gate of the Pasha's
Palace at Belgrade, 1810," "House Key from Nuremberg, 1567," were some
of the descriptions I read.

Then a voice behind me said:

"Ah! you admire my little treasures!"

Turning, I saw a short, stout man, of a marked Jewish appearance, with a
bald head, a fat nose, little beady eyes and a large waist.

"Eugen Kore!" he introduced himself with a bow.

"Meyer!" I replied, in the German fashion.

"And what can we do for Herr ... Meyer?" he asked in oily tones, pausing
just long enough before he pro