I tell you that U-boat that sank the
_San Pietro_ is laying for us. In about an hour you'll see a periscope
bob up out there. Then we'll send out an S.O.S., and the next thing you
know we'll sink with all on board."

We had as yet escaped this doom when toward six o'clock we approached
Gibraltar, running beneath a crimson sunset and between misty purple
shores. On one hand lay Africa, on the other the Moorish country,
both shrouded in a soft haze and edged with snowy foam. Down below
the soldiers of Italy were singing. A merchantman of belligerent
nationality, our ship proudly flew its flag again. Indeed, had it failed
to do so, the British patrol-boats would long since have known the
reason why.

It was growing dark when I turned to find Van Blarcom at my elbow.

"I didn't see you," I commented rather shortly. I don't like people to
creep up beside me like cats.

"No," he responded. "I've been waiting quite a while. I didn't want to
disturb you, but the fact is I'd like a word with you, Mr. Bayne."

I eyed him with curiosity. He was inscrutable, this quiet, alert,
efficient-looking man. Take, for instance, his present manner, half
self-assured, half respectfully apologetic--what grade in life did it
fit?

"Well, here I am," I said briefly as I struck a match.

"I've thought it over a good bit," he went on, apparently in
self-justification. "I don't know how you will take it, but I'll chance
it just the same. If I don't give you a hint, you don't get a square
deal. That's my attitude. Did you ever hear of Franz von Blenheim, Mr.
Bayne?"

"Eh?" The question seemed distinctly irrelevant--and yet where had I
heard that name, not very long ago?

"The German secret-service agent. The best in the world, they say." A
sort of reluctant admiration showed in Van Blarcom's face. "There
isn't any one that can get him; he does what he wants, goes where he
likes--the United States, England, France, Russia--and always gets away
safe. You'd think he was a conjurer to read what he does sometimes.
A whole country will be looking for him, and he takes some one else's
passport, puts on a disguise, and good-by--he's gone! That's Franz
von Blenheim. No; that's just an outline of him. And on pretty good
authority, he's in Washington now."

Mr. Van Blarcom, I reflected, was surely coming out of his shell; this
was quite a monologue with which he was favoring me. It was dark now;
our lights were flaring. Being in a friendly port's