e idea that
suddenly germinated in my brain as I sat fingering the dead man's
letter-case in that squalid room. The impulse sprang into my brain like
a flash and like a flash I acted on it, though I can hardly believe I
meant to pursue it to its logical conclusion until I stood once more
outside the door of my room.

The examination of the dead man's papers had shown me that he was an
American business man, who had just come from London, having but
recently proceeded to England from the United States.

What puzzled me was why an American manufacturer, seemingly of some
substance and decently dressed, should go to a German hotel on the
recommendation of a German, from his name, and the style of his visiting
card, a man of good family.

Semlin might, of course, have been, like myself, a traveller benighted
in Rotterdam, owing his recommendation to the hotel to a German
acquaintance in the city. Still, Americans are cautious folk and I found
it rather improbable that this American business man should adventure
himself into this evil-looking house with a large sum of money on his
person--he had several hundred pounds of money in Dutch currency notes
in a thick wad in his portfolio.

I knew that the British authorities discouraged, as far as they could,
neutrals travelling to and fro between England and Germany in war-time.
Possibly Semlin wanted to do business in Germany on his European trip as
well as in England. Knowing the attitude of the British authorities, he
may well have made his arrangements in Holland for getting into Germany
lest the British police should get wind of his purpose and stop him
crossing to Rotterdam.

But his German was so flawless, with no trace of Americanism in voice or
accent. And I knew what good use the German Intelligence had made of
neutral passports in the past. Therefore I determined to go next door
and have a look at Dr. Semlin's luggage. In the back of my mind was ever
that harebrain resolve, half-formed as yet but none the less firmly
rooted in my head.

Taking up my candle again, I stole out of the room. As I stood in the
corridor and turned to lock the bedroom door behind me, the mirror at
the end of the passage caught the reflection of my candle.

I looked and saw myself in the glass, a white, staring face.

I looked again. Then I fathomed the riddle that had puzzled me in the
dead face of the stranger in my room.

It was not the face of Francis that his features suggested