Mr. Reynolds walked back up the steps of the Council House of Witanbury. He felt as if he had just had a pleasant glimpse of that Kingdom of Romance which so many seek and so few find, and that now he was returning into the everyday world. Sure enough, when he reached the Council Chamber, he found Dr. Haworth there with a prosaic-looking person. This was evidently the man to whom the Dean thought Anna would be more likely to reveal the truth than to her kind, impulsive employer.

Mr. Reynolds had not expected to see so intelligent and young-looking a man. He was familiar with the type of German who has for long made his career in England. But this naturalised German was not true to type at all! Though probably over fifty, he still had an alert, active figure, and he was extraordinarily like someone Mr. Reynolds had seen. In fact, for a few moments the likeness quite haunted him. Who on earth could it be that this man so strongly resembled? But soon he gave up the likeness as a bad job—it didn’t matter, after all!

“Well, Mr. Head, I expect that Dr. Haworth has already told you what it is we hope from you.”

“Yes, sir, I think I understand.”

“Are you an American?” asked the other abruptly.

The Witanbury City Councillor looked slightly embarrassed. “No,” he said at last. “But I was in the United States for some years.”

“You were never connected, I suppose, with the New York Police?”

“Oh no, sir!” There was no mistaking the man’s genuine surprise at the question.

“I only asked you,” said Mr. Reynolds hastily, “because I feel as if we had met before. But I suppose I made a mistake. By the way, do you know Anna Bauer well?”

Alfred Head waited a moment; he looked instinctively to the Dean for guidance, but the Dean made no sign.

“I know Anna Bauer pretty well,” he said at last. “But she’s more a friend of my wife than of mine. She used sometimes to come and spend the evening with us.”

He was feeling exceedingly uncomfortable. Had Anna mentioned him? He thought not. He hoped not. “What is it exactly you want me to get out of her?” he asked, cringingly.

Mr. Reynolds hesitated. Somehow he did not at all like the man standing before him. Shortly he explained how much the old woman had already admitted; and then, “Perhaps you could ascertain whether she has received any money since the outbreak of war, and if so, by what method. I may tell you in confidence, Mr. Head, there has been a good deal of German money going about in this part of the world. We hold certain clues, but up to the present time we have not been able to trace this money to its source.”

“I think I quite understand what it is you require to know, sir,” said Alfred Head respectfully.

There came a knock at the door. “Mr. Reynolds in there? You are wanted, sir, on the telephone. A London call from Scotland Yard.”

“All right,” he said quietly. “Tell them they must wait a moment. Will you please take Mr. Head to the cell where Anna Bauer is confined?”

Then he hurried off to the telephone, well aware that he might now be about to hear the real solution of the mystery. Some of his best people had been a long time on this Witanbury job.

Terrified and bewildered as she had been by the events of midday, Anna, when putting her few things together, had not forgotten her work. True, she had been too much agitated and upset to crochet or knit during the long hours which had elapsed since the morning. But the conversation she had had with her mistress had reassured her. How good that dear, gracious lady had been! How kindly she had accepted the confession of deceit!

Yes, but it was very, very wrong of her, Anna Bauer, to have done what she had done. She knew that now. What was the money she had earned—a few paltry pounds—compared with all this fearful trouble? Still, she felt now sure the trouble would soon be over. She had a pathetic faith, not only in her mistress, but also in Mrs. Jervis Blake and in the Dean. They would see her through this strange, shameful business. So she took her workbag off the bed, and brought out her crochet.

She had just begun working when she heard the door open, and there came across her face a sudden look of apprehension. She was weary of being questioned, and of parrying questions. But now she had told all she knew. There was great comfort in that thought.

Her face cleared, became quite cheerful and smiling, when she saw Alfred Head. He, too, was a kind friend; he, too, would help her as much as he could—if indeed any more help were needed. But the Dean and her own lady would certainly be far more powerful than Alfred Head.

Poor Old Anna was not in a condition to be very observant. She did not see that there was anything but a cordial expression on her friend’s face, and that he looked indeed very stern and disagreeable.

The door was soon shut behind him, and instead of advancing with hand outstretched, he crossed his arms and looked down at her, silently, for a few moments.

At last, speaking between his teeth, and in German, he exclaimed, “This is a pretty state of things, Frau Bauer. You have made more trouble than you know!”

She stared up at him, uncomprehendingly. “I don’t understand,” she faltered. “I did nothing. What do you mean?”

“I mean that you have brought us all within sight of the gallows. Yourself quite as much as your friends.”

“The gallows?” exclaimed old Anna, in an agitated whisper. “Explain yourself, Mr. Head——” She was trembling now. “What is it you mean?”

“I do not know what it is you have told,” he spoke in a less savage tone. “And I know as a matter of fact that there is very little you could say, for you have been kept in the dark. But one thing I may tell you. If you say one word, Frau Bauer, of where you received your blood money just after the War broke out, then I, too, will say what I know. If I do that, instead of being deported—that is, instead of being sent comfortably back to Berlin, to your niece and her husband, who surely will look after you and make your old age comfortable—then I swear to you before God that you will hang!”

“Hang? But I have done nothing!”

Anna was now almost in a state of collapse, and he saw his mistake.

“You are in no real danger at all if you will only do exactly what I tell you,” he declared, impressively.

“Yes,” she faltered. “Yes, Herr Hegner, indeed I will obey you.”

He looked round him hastily. “Never, never call me that!” he exclaimed. “And now listen quite quietly to what I have to say. Remember you are in no danger—no danger at all—if you follow my orders.”

She looked at him dumbly.

“You are to say that the parcels came to you from your nephew in Germany. It will do him no harm. The English police cannot reach him.”

“But I’ve already said,” she confessed, distractedly, “that they were brought to me by a friend of his.”

“It is a pity you said that, but it does not much matter. The one thing you must conceal at all hazards is that you received any money from me. Do you understand that, Frau Bauer? Have you said anything of that?”

“No,” she said slowly. “No, I have said nothing of that.”

He fancied there was a look of hesitation on her face. As a matter of fact we know that Anna had not betrayed Alfred Head. But that she had not done so was an accident, only caused by her unwillingness to dwell on the money she had received when telling her story to Mrs. Guthrie.

The old woman turned a mottled red and yellow colour, in the poor light of the cell.

“Please try and remember,” he said sternly, “if you mentioned me at all.”

“I swear I did not!” she cried.

“Did you say that you had received money?”

And Anna answered, truthfully, “Yes, Herr Head; I did say that.”

“Fool! Fool indeed—when it would have been so easy for you to pretend you had done it to please your nephew!”

“But Mrs. Otway, she has forgiven me. My gracious lady does not think I did anything so very wrong,” cried Anna.

“Mrs. Otway? What does she matter! They will do all they can to get out of you how you received this money. You must say—— Are you attending, Frau Bauer?”

She had sunk down again on her bench; she felt her legs turning to cotton-wool. “Yes,” she muttered. “Yes, I am attending——”

“You must say,” he commanded, “that you always received the money from your nephew. That since the war you have had none. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” she murmured—“quite clear, Herr Head.”

“If you do not say that, if you bring me into this dirty business, then I, too, will say what I know about you.”

She looked at him uncomprehendingly. What did he mean?

“Ah, you do not know perhaps what I can tell about you!”

He came nearer to her, and in a hissing whisper went on: “I can tell how it was through you that a certain factory in Flanders was shelled, and eighty Englishmen were killed. And if I tell that, they will hang you!”

“But that is not true,” said Anna stoutly. “So you could not say that!”

“It is true.” He spoke with a kind of ferocious energy that carried conviction, even to her. “It is absolutely true, and easily proved. You showed a letter—a letter from Mr. Jervis Blake. In that letter was information which led directly to the killing of those eighty English soldiers, and to the injury to Mr. Jervis Blake which lost him his foot.”

“What is that you say?” Anna’s voice rose to a scream of horror—of incredulous, protesting horror. “Unsay, do unsay what you have just said, kind Mr. Head!”

“How can I unsay what is the fact?” he answered savagely. “Do not be a stupid fool! You ought to be glad you performed such a deed for the Fatherland.”

“Not Mr. Jervis Blake,” she wailed out. “Not the bridegroom of my child!”

“The bridegroom of your child was engaged in killing good Germans; and now he will never kill any Germans any more. And it is you, Frau Bauer, who shot off his foot. If you betray me, all that will be known, and they will not deport you, they will hang you!”

To this she said nothing, and he touched her roughly on the shoulder. “Look up, Frau Bauer! Look up, and tell me that you understand! It is important!”

She looked up, and even he was shocked, taken aback, by the strange look on her face. It was a look of dreadful understanding, of fear, and of pain. “I do understand,” she said in a low voice.

“If you do what I tell you, nothing will happen to you,” he exclaimed impatiently, but more kindly than he had yet spoken. “You will only be sent home, deported, as they call it. If you are thinking of your money in the Savings Bank, that they will not allow you to take. But without doubt your ladies will take care of it for you till this cursed war is over. So you see you have nothing to fear if you do what I tell you. So now good-bye, Frau Bauer. I’ll go and tell them that you know nothing, that I have been not able to get anything out of you. Is that so?”

“Yes,” she answered apathetically.

Giving one more quick look at her bowed head, he went across and knocked loudly at the cell door.

There was a little pause, and then the door opened. It opened just wide enough to let him out.

And then, just for a moment, Alfred Head felt a slight tremor of discomfort, for the end of the passage, that is, farther down, some way past Anna’s cell, now seemed full of men. There stood the chief local police inspector and three or four policemen, as well as the gentleman from London.

It was the latter who first spoke. He came forward, towards Alfred Head. “Well,” he said rather sternly, “I presume that you’ve been able to get nothing from the old woman?”

And Mr. Head answered glibly enough, “That’s quite correct, sir. There is evidently nothing to be got out of her. As you yourself said, sir, not long ago, this old woman has only been a tool.”

The two policemen were now walking one each side of him, and it seemed to Alfred Head as if he were being hustled along towards the hall where there generally stood, widely open, the doors leading out on to the steps to the Market Place.

He told himself that he would be very glad to get out into the open air and collect his thoughts. He did not believe that his old fellow-countrywoman would, to use a vulgar English colloquialism, “give him away.” But still, he would not feel quite at ease till she was safely deported and out of the way.

The passage was rather a long one, and he began to feel a curious, nervous craving to reach the end of it—to be, that is, out in the hall.

But just before they reached the end of the passage the men about him closed round Alfred Head. He felt himself seized, it seemed to him from every side, not roughly, but with a terribly strong muscular grip.

“What is this?” he cried in a loud voice. Even as he spoke, he wondered if he could be dreaming—if this was the horrible after effect of the strain he had just gone through.

For a moment only he struggled, and then, suddenly, he submitted. He knew what it was he wished to save; it was the watch chain to which were attached the two keys of the safe in his bedroom. He wore them among a bunch of old-fashioned Georgian seals which he had acquired in the way of business, and he had had the keys gilt, turned to a dull gold colour, to match the seals. It was possible, just possible, that they might escape the notice of these thick-witted men about him.

“What does this mean?” he demanded; and then he stopped, for there rose a distant sound of crying and screaming in the quiet place.

“What is that?” he cried, startled.

The police inspector came forward; he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to tell you, Head”—he spoke quite civilly, even kindly—“that we’ve had to arrest your wife, too.”

“This is too much! She is a child—a mere child! Innocent as a baby unborn. An Englishwoman, too, as you know well, Mr. Watkins. They must be all mad in this town—it is quite mad to suspect my poor little Polly!”

The inspector was a kindly man, naturally humane, and he had known the prisoner for a considerable number of years. As for poor Polly, he had always been acquainted with her family, and had seen her grow up from a lovely child into a very pretty girl.

“Look here!” he said. “It’s no good kicking up a row. Unluckily for her, they found the key with which they opened your safe in her possession. D’you take my meaning?”

Alfred Head grew rather white. “That’s impossible!” he said confidently. “There are but two keys, and I have them both.”

The other looked at him with a touch of pity. “There must have been a third key,” he said slowly. “I’ve got it here myself. It was hidden away in an old-fashioned dressing-case. Besides, Mrs. Head didn’t put up any fight. But if she can prove, as she says, that she knows no German, and that you didn’t know she had a key of the safe—for that’s what she says—well, that’ll help her, of course.”

“But there’s nothing in the safe,” Head objected, quickly, “nothing of what might be called an incriminating nature, Mr. Watkins. Only business letters and papers, and all of them sent me before the War.”

The other man looked at him, and hesitated. He had gone quite as far as old friendship allowed. “That’s as may be,” he said cautiously. “I know nothing of all that. They’ve been sealed up, and are going off to London. What caused you to be arrested, Mr. Head—this much I may tell you—is information which was telephoned down to that London gentleman half an hour ago. But it was just an accident that the key Mrs. Head had hidden away was found so quickly—just a bit of bad luck for her, if I may say so.”

“Then I suppose I shan’t be allowed to see Polly?” There was a tone of extreme dejection in the voice.

“Well, we’ll see about that! I’ll see what I can do for you. You’re not to be charged till to-morrow morning. Then you’ll be charged along with that man—the man who came to the Trellis House this morning. He’s been found too. He went straight to those Pollits—you follow my meaning? Mrs. Pollit is the daughter of that old German woman. I never could abide her! Often and often I said to my missis, as I see her go crawling about, ‘There’s a German as is taking away a good job from an English woman.’ So she was. Well, I must now tell them where to take you. And I’m afraid you’ll have to be stripped and searched—that’s the order in these kind of cases.”

Alfred Head nodded. “I don’t mind,” he said stoutly. “I’m an innocent man.” But he had clenched his teeth together when he had heard the name of Pollit uttered so casually. If Pollit told all he knew, then the game was indeed up.