ched. I was playin' the part
of right worthy inside guard, and nobody came within ten feet of the
private office door but what I'd sized 'em up before they could reach
the knob. Still, two whole days passed without any attack on the first
line trenches. The third day Vincent and I had a little skirmish with a
mild-eyed young gent who claimed he wanted to see Mr. Ellins urgent, but
he turns out to be only a law clerk from the office of our general
solicitors bringin' up some private papers to be signed.

Then here Friday--and it was Friday the 13th, too--Vincent comes
sleuthin' in to my desk and shows me a card.

"Well," says I, "who does this H. Munson Schott party say he is?"

"That's just it," says Vincent. "He doesn't say. But he has a letter of
introduction to Mr. Ellins from the Belgian Consul General. Rather an
important looking person, too."

"H-m-m-m!" says I, runnin' my fingers through my red hair thoughtful.

You see, we'd been figurin' on some big reconstruction contracts with
the Belgian government, and while I hadn't heard how far the deal had
gone, there was a chance that this might be an agent from the royal
commission.

"If it is," says I, "we can't afford to treat him rough. Let's see, the
Hon. Matt. Dowd, the golf addict, is still in the private office givin'
Old Hickory another earful about the Scotch plague, ain't he?"

"No, sir," says Vincent. "Mr. Ellins asked him to wait half an hour or
so. He's in the director's room."

"Maybe I'd better take a look at your Mr. Schott first then," says I.

But after I'd gone out and given him the north and south careful I was
right where I started. I didn't quite agree with Vincent that he looked
important, but he acted it. He's pacin' up and down outside the brass
rail kind of impatient, and as I appears he's just consultin' his watch.
A nifty tailored young gent with slick putty-colored hair and
Maeterlinck blue eyes. Nothing suspicious in the way of packages about
him. Not even a pigskin document case or an overcoat with bulgy pockets.
He's grippin' a French line steamship pamphlet in one hand, a letter in
the other, and from the crook of his right elbow hangs a heavy
silver-mounted walkin' stick. Also he's wearin' gray spats. Nothing book
agenty about any of them signs.

"Mr. Schott?" says I, springin' my official smile. "To see Mr. Ellins, I
understand. I'm his private secretary. Could I--"

"I wish to see Mr. Ellins personally," breaks in Mr. Sc