PAUL ZIMMERLEIN was a mining engineer. His offices were off Fifth Avenue, somewhere above 34th Street. He stood well in his profession, he stood high as a citizen. No one questioned his integrity, his ability or his loyalty. He was a good American. At least, a great many good Americans said he was, which amounts to the same thing.

One entered his offices through a small antechamber, where a young woman at the telephone-desk made perfunctory inquiries, but always in a crisp, business-like manner. She was the first cog in a smooth-running piece of machinery. Her name was Mildred,—Mildred Agnew, and she had a brother in the British navy, from whom she received infrequent letters of a most unilluminating character,—letters omitting date, place and ship: in which he said he was well and happy and hoped to God the Germans would come out into the open to see what the weather was like.

If your business was important, or you had an appointment, you would be conducted by a smart-looking boy into a rather imposing corner room, from whose windows you could look down fourteen storeys to the roof of an eight storey building below. Presently you would be invited into Mr. Zimmerlein's private office. Beyond this snug little office was the drafting room, where several actively studious men of various ages bent over blue-prints and estimate sheets.

They all appeared to be good, industrious Americans; you could see them quite plainly through the glass upper half of the intervening door.

You were at once aware of an impression that this was not the place to come if you were engaged in a secret or shady enterprise,—such as the exploitation of a “get-rich-quick” mining proposition or any kindred opening for the unwary. You always said to yourself that you felt quite safe in the hands of Mr. Paul Zimmerlein,—and his associates.

You went about saying that you wished all men with German blood in them were like Mr. Paul Zimmerlein. He became one of your pet hobbies. You invariably referred to him when you declared that you knew at least one man of German extraction who was “absolutely on the level,” and you would unhesitatingly go about proving it if any one had the effrontery to even discuss the point with you. All you would have to do would be to point in triumph to the men who were his associates professionally, commercially and socially. The list would include many of the really significant figures in public life. Among them, for instance, you would mention several United States senators, at least two gentlemen high up in Administrative circles, practically all of the big financiers, certain members of the English Cabinet, and,—in a pinch,—the presidents of three South American Republics. He was on record as being violently opposed to Von Berastorff,—indeed, he had said such bitter and violent things about the ex-ambassador that even the most conservative German-Americans,—those who actually were opposed to the Kaiser and his policies,—felt that he was going much too far.

He was about forty years of age, tall and powerfully built, with surprisingly mobile features for one whose face at a glance suggested heaviness and stolidity. His smile was ever ready and genial; his manner courtly; his eyes, which were honest and unwavering, had something sprightly in them that invited confidence and comradeship. The thick, dark hair was touched with grey at the temples, and there was a deep scar on his left cheek, received—not in a German university, as you might suppose,—but during a fierce and sanguinary encounter with Yaqui Indians in northern Mexico,—a tragedy which cost the lives of several of his companions and brought from the people of the United States a demand that the government take drastic action in the matter. Altogether, a prepossessing, substantial figure of a man, with a delightful personality.

Shortly before noon on the day following the destruction of the great Reynolds plant by alien plotters, Zimmerlein was seated in his office, awaiting the arrival of two well-known New York merchants and a gentleman from Brazil. Half-a-dozen morning newspapers, with their sinister head-lines, lay upon his desk, neatly folded and stacked with grave orderliness. He had read them, and was lolling back in his big leather chair with a faint smile on his lips, and a far-off, frowning expression in his eyes.

The gentleman from Brazil came first.

“Sit down,” said Zimmerlein curtly. “They will be here in a few minutes.”

“That was a terrible thing last night, Zimmerlein,” said the Brazilian, nervously glancing over his shoulder in the direction of the drafting-room.

Zimmerlein made no response. He resumed his set, faraway expression, his gaze directed at the upper sash of the broad, high window, beyond which a distant, grey cloud glided slowly across a blue-white sky.

“Most shocking,” went on the Brazilian, after a moment. He had not removed his overcoat. The fur collar was still fastened closely about his neck.

Zimmerlein turned toward his visitor.

“Take off your coat, Riaz. Make yourself comfortable,” he said, affably. “Help yourself to a cigar.”

Riaz,—Sebastian Riaz, diamond merchant and mine-owner of Rio Janeiro,—removed his coat. “The appointment was for eleven o'clock, Mr. Zimmerlein,” he said, looking at his watch. “They are late. It is nearly twelve.”

“Permit me to remind you that you also were late. Everything is in order, my dear sir. The deal may be closed in ten minutes,—or even less time than that,—if there is no further haggling on your part.” He closed one eye slowly. “The contracts, the estimates, the plans are ready. Nothing is lacking except the signatures.”

“Just as they have been ready for nearly two months,” observed Riaz, also closing an eye.

“All ready—except the signatures and the date.”

“We shall date them,—and sign them,—in our extremity,” said Zimmerlein, going to a safe which stood invitingly open in a corner of the room. He removed a small but important-looking package of papers and tossed them carelessly on the table. “Such as a visit from on high,” he added, with a smile.

“Yes,” said Riaz, and sat down again, frowning.

“We shall never be caught napping. Here are the papers, as they would say in the melodrama. By the way, do you go in for melodrama in Rio? Or are you above that form of amusement?”

Riaz remained unsmiling. “It is not as popular with us as it is with you Americans,” said he. “We see through it too readily.”

Zimmerlein unfolded and spread out several of the documents. “There!” he said. “Let him come who will. Under the sharpest eyes in America you may transfer property valued at ten millions, and no one will question the validity of the transaction. You see, my dear Riaz, you do own these mines and they are exactly what they are represented to Be. To save their lives, they can't go behind the facts. And the purchasers are prepared to hand over the cash at any moment. Could anything be simpler?”

“Nothing,” said the Brazilian, sententiously,—“except the damned little slip that sometimes comes between the cup and the lip.”

“Ah, but our cup is always at the lip,” said Zimmerlein buoyantly. “Don't be a kill-joy, old chap.”

“All well and good, Zimmerlein, unless some one's lip splits.” He shot an uneasy glance into the drafting-room.

“This is the most perfect machine in the world, Riaz. Have no fear. Every cog has been tested and is of the staunchest steel. Every part has been put in its proper place by the greatest genius alive.”

“I don't have to remind you that a few cogs in the Foreign office have slipped badly.”

The door opened to admit two brisk, prosperous-looking gentlemen.

“I fear we are late,” said the foremost. “It was unavoidable, I assure you.”

“It is never too late,” said Zimmerlein, advancing to shake hands with the new-comers. Then, while they were laying aside their overcoats, he stepped swiftly to the door of the drafting-room and called out: “Thorsensel! Come here, please. And you also, Martin.”

One of the men in the outer room, laid down the instrument with which he was working over a huge blue-print; with a sigh of resignation, he removed his green eye-shield, smoothed out his wrinkled alpaca coat, and came slowly, diffidently into the private office. He was a middle-aged, stoop-shouldered, sunken-faced man, with a drooping moustache that lacked not only in pride but in colour as well. The ends were gnawed and scraggly, and there were cigarette stains along the uneven edges. Otherwise, this sickly adornment was straw-coloured. Thick spectacles enlarged his almost expressionless blue eyes; as one looked straight into them, the eyeballs seemed to be twice the normal size.

This man was John Thorsensel, civil engineer, American—born of Norwegian parentage, graduate of one of the greatest engineering universities in the country. You would go many a league before encountering a more unimposing, commonplace person,—and yet here was the most astute secret servant in the German Kaiser's vast establishment. Not Zimmerlein, nor Riaz, nor any of the important-looking individuals who skulked behind respectable names, not one of them was the head and heart of the sinister, far-reaching octopus that spread its slimy influence across the United States of America. John Thorsensel, an insignificant toiler, was the master-mind, the arch-conspirator. It was his hand that rested on the key, his thought that covered everything, his infernal ingenuity that confounded the shrewdest minds on this side of the Atlantic. The last man in the world to be suspected,—such was John Thorsensel, bad angel.

Martin, the other man called to the conference, was a brisk young fellow who left a rolltop desk in the corner of the drafting-room and presented himself with stenographer's note-book and pencil. It is worthy of mention that this book already contained the stenographic notes of the preliminary verbal discussion between the three principals to a transaction involving the sale of great mining properties in South America. Everything was perfectly prepared, even to the abrupt termination of the conference that would come naturally in case agents of the government took it into their heads to appear. Martin's notes, jotted down weeks beforehand, broke off in the most natural way. There is no telling how many times he had sat with the note-book on his knee in just such a conference as this, without adding a single word to what already appeared on the pages. It is safe to say, however, that the notes were never transcribed.

It would have been impossible to find in the offices of Paul Zimmerlein a single incriminating line, or article, or suggestion of either,—for the simple reason that no such thing existed. Nothing ever appeared in tangible form. Visitors were always welcome.

Once and once only had the slightest symptom of a creak appeared in the well-ordered machine. One man was suspected,—merely suspected. There was no actual evidence against him in the hands of the conspirators, but the fact that a possibility existed was enough for them. He was an ordinary window-washer who came twice a month to the office,—not oftener,—in his regular round of the building. Always it was the same man who washed Zimmerlein's windows, and always a few words passed between him and the engineer,—words that no one else heard. One day the device to which his safety belt was attached gave way and he fell fourteen storeys to the roof of the building below. He was to be trusted after that.

The six men gathered in the office of Mr. Paul Zimmerlein formed a combination of intelligence, wealth, energy and evil sufficient to satisfy even the most exacting of masters. Here were the shrewdest, the safest, the soundest agents of the cruelest system in all the world. No small, half-hearted undertaking in frightfulness ever grew out of their deliberations; no sporadic, clumsy botch in the shape of needless violence; no crazy, fore-doomed project; no mistakes. They were the big men,—the men who did the big things.

Out of every nook and cranny in the land oozed constant and reliable reports from the most trustworthy sources, from agents of both sexes; sly, secret, mysterious forces supplied them with facts that no man was supposed to know; the magic of the Far East was surpassed by these wizards who came not out of Egypt but from commonplace, unromantic circles in the Occident.

The departures of vessels from every port, the nature of their cargoes; the sailings of transports and the number of troops; the conditions in all the munitions plants and cantonments; the state of mind of the millions of workers and idlers throughout the land; the very thoughts of the people in control of the country's affairs, it would seem. Everything! Everything was known to this resourceful clique. They were the backbone of the unrest, the uneasiness, the scepticism that swept the land. Their agents, loyal unto death, were everywhere. The secrets of sea, land and air were theirs. They could buy,—buy anything they wanted with the wealth that was theirs for the asking.

Information came to them and commands were issued by them in a thousand different ways, but never in circumstances that invited suspicion. A casual meeting on the street; the passing of the time of day; a hand-shake in restaurant or club; brief and seemingly innocuous exchanges of pleasantries at the theatre; perfunctory contact with stenographers, employes, and customers in the course of a day; thus, under the eyes of all observers the secret word was given and received. With these men no word was written, no visible message was exchanged. And the German language was never spoken.

“Trains from the West are all late,” said one of the late arrivals, an elderly, grey-whiskered man. “Rhine did not get in from Chicago till nearly eleven. It was imperative that I should see him before coming here, gentlemen.”

“Well?” demanded Thorsensel.

“He says the time is not yet ripe. He has studied the situation, has had reports from many sources. It is too soon. A partial success would be far worse than a total failure. He is very positive. '7

“All right,” said Thorsensel crisply. The matter was thus summarily disposed of. He did not believe in wasting time or words. He turned, with a questioning look, to the other prosperous-looking citizen.

“He died very suddenly last night,” said that worthy, responding to the unspoken query.

Thorsensel nodded his head with lively satisfaction.

“Anything else?”

“That young fellow we were speaking of the other day dropped in at the store this morning. He appears to be interested in a very good-looking shop-girl on the second floor. I don't know how many pairs of gloves he has bought of her in the past few weeks.”

“I know, I know,” impatiently. “Miss Group.”

“We're making no mistake about this fellow, are we, Elberon?” demanded Zimmerlein.

“No,—absolutely no. Ill stake my life on him.”

“Go on,” said Thorsensel curtly.

“The British and French Commission sails tomorrow on the Elston. There is no question about it. He had it from the same source that reported their arrival last month.”

“Martin, see that this information is on the wing immediately,” said Thorsensel. “We may accept it as authentic.”

“I should think we might,” said Zimmerlein, “when you stop to consider that no one in the United States or England is supposed to know, even now, that this Commission is in the country,—that is, no one outside a very restricted circle in Washington. I've never known anything to be kept so completely under cover. Some of the biggest men in France and England land on our shores, transact the most important business conceivable, and get out again without so much as a whiff of the news reaching the public. Somebody deserves the Iron Cross for this, Thorsensel. It is the cleverest, smartest piece of work that has been done up to date.”

“I venture the opinion that the Elston with its precious cargo will never see land again,” was Thorsensel's remark.

“The Kitchener job all over again, eh?” said Riaz, admiringly.

“Or the Lusitania, amended Elberon.

“Don't speak of the Lusitania,” exclaimed Thorsensel, irritably. “You know how I feel about that piece of stupidity.”

“You were against it all the time, I know,” began Elberon.

“Of course I was. It was the gravest blunder in history. But this is no time to talk about it. Every one has reported on last night's business. There were no casualties and no one is missing.”

“Good!” exclaimed the grey-whiskered plotter, his piggish eyes sparkling. “No one killed or injured or missing, eh? That seems all that could be expected of Providence.”

“Every man has reported,” said Thorsensel succinctly. “Even Trott, from whom we had heard nothing for two whole days. It appears he was trapped and had to lie hidden in an empty bin. He got away just in time, and without being seen. Yes, luck and God were with us last night, gentlemen. Not a life lost, nor a man scratched.”

“If we come out half as well next week, I will say that God is with us,” said Zimmerlein.

“Where were you last night, Elberon?” demanded the gaunt leader abruptly.

“I dined with some friends and went to the theatre afterwards, Thorsensel.”

“Who were they?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Heidel——”

“You needn't finish the name,” broke in Thornsensel. “I want to warn you again not to take them into your confidence,—not even in the smallest of matters.”

“His brother is a general in the Bavarian——”

“It doesn't matter. I know all that. And one of her brothers is in the Reichstag. But you must not overlook the fact that a great many of these people are loyal to America. That is a point you don't seem able to get through your head, Elberon. The worst enemy, the direst peril we have to contend with is the American-German, if you grasp the distinction. No one seems to have used the hyphen in just that way, Elberon, but there is such a thing as the American-German, and we've got to steer clear of him. He's not as uncommon as you may think, either. This man you were with last night is one. He would turn you over to the authorities in a flash if he got a breath of the truth. A word to the wise, Elberon, means a word to you.”

“A man is one thing or the other,” said the other, flushing. “He's either a German or an American. There's nothing in the hyphen.”

“You're quite right,” agreed Thorsensel. “The man you were with last night is an American in spite of his name and his antecedents. I happen to know. Somewhere in this city there is a list of the people I define as American-Germans. It is a rather formidable list, let me tell you. They happen to be traitors, damn them.”

“Traitors? I thought you said they were loyal.”

“You'd see what would happen to them if they ever set foot on German soil,” said Thorsensel, and it was not difficult, even for the stolid Elberon, to see what he meant by loyalty.

An hour later the meeting came to an end, and the men went their several ways, unsuspected by the troubled, harassed watch-dogs of the nation. In that hour they had confidently, almost contemptuously, forwarded the consummation of other enterprises even more startling than the blowing up of the Reynolds plant. Remote assassinations were drawn a trifle nearer; plans leading to the bombing of New York by aeroplanes that were to rise up out of the sea from monster submarines; a new and not to be denied smashing of the Welland Canal; well-timed collisions of ships in the lower Hudson, and other basins, with results more stupendous than anything yet conceived; deceptive peace propaganda for the guileless and unwary American proletariat; subtle interference in the Halls of Congress; almost everything, it may be said, except the transfer of valuable mines in Brazil. That trifling detail was left to another day.

Within the next hour, a message was on its way through the air to far-off Berlin, giving in singularly accurate figures the military losses sustained by the Allies at a spot in New Jersey recently occupied by the great Reynolds concern.