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the trend of the talk was in no wise antagonistic, containing as it did even certain confidential remarks about the detective's own life. But actually seated before me was as I understood an agent of the British Intelligence Service, so was it not the occasion, if ever, to broach the subject of the band of revengeful peasants that were armed and prowling about the neighbourhood. But to my eloquence, Mr. J. turned a deaf ear, he would have nothing to do with that ill-famed family. His mission was to find the illusive gardener who had worked in no other than my garden. N. called out from her bed about the suspicious Polish maid we had had in our service, but to this again Mr. J. showed complete indifference. He would come next day, he said, and bring with him an Italian officer who had been caught at the Villa S. while spying for the Germans. This officer alone could identify the letter-box man, and by so doing save his own life which was in the balance.

The next morning found us seated round the diningroom table (a fire having been lit expressly for the occasion) Mr. J. had with him two new companions. One of these spoke with a Southern accent which made it impossible for me to understand him; the other was the Italian officer who hoped to be reprieved if he could identify a gardener with a front tooth missing, side-whiskers, lame and forty years of age. Now this officer, though young, held his head crouched between hunched-up shoulders and when excited his long nose grew red and was caught in the

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