is in my mind. I've heard that with you
German politicians when an agent has done his work you are not sorry to
see him put away."

Von Bork sprang to his feet.

"Do you dare to suggest that I have given away my own agents!"

"I don't stand for that, mister, but there's a stool pigeon or a cross
somewhere, and it's up to you to find out where it is. Anyhow I am
taking no more chances. It's me for little Holland, and the sooner the
better."

Von Bork had mastered his anger.

"We have been allies too long to quarrel now at the very hour of
victory," he said. "You've done splendid work and taken risks, and I
can't forget it. By all means go to Holland, and you can get a boat
from Rotterdam to New York. No other line will be safe a week from
now. I'll take that book and pack it with the rest."

The American held the small parcel in his hand, but made no motion to
give it up.

"What about the dough?" he asked.

"The what?"

"The boodle. The reward. The 500 pounds. The gunner turned damned
nasty at the last, and I had to square him with an extra hundred
dollars or it would have been nitsky for you and me. 'Nothin' doin'!'
says he, and he meant it, too, but the last hundred did it. It's cost
me two hundred pound from first to last, so it isn't likely I'd give it
up without gettin' my wad."

Von Bork smiled with some bitterness. "You don't seem to have a very
high opinion of my honour," said he, "you want the money before you
give up the book."

"Well, mister, it is a business proposition."

"All right. Have your way." He sat down at the table and scribbled a
check, which he tore from the book, but he refrained from handing it to
his companion. "After all, since we are to be on such terms, Mr.
Altamont," said he, "I don't see why I should trust you any more than
you trust me. Do you understand?" he added, looking back over his
shoulder at the American. "There's the check upon the table. I claim
the right to examine that parcel before you pick the money up."

The American passed it over without a word. Von Bork undid a winding
of string and two wrappers of paper. Then he sat gazing for a moment
in silent amazement at a small blue book which lay before him. Across
the cover was printed in golden letters Practical Handbook of Bee
Culture. Only for one instant did the master spy glare at this
strangely irrelevant inscription. The next he was gripped at the back
of his neck by a grasp of iron,