Early that afternoon, Norma, who had cut her sleeping hours short, joined Lieutenant Warren in one of those toy-like cars, known as peeps, and went spinning down the shore road.

Their first stop was the cottage occupied by Bess and Beth. School, Norma had learned, was out because of a teacher’s convention so the twins were free to go with them to the spotter shed.

There they were able, with Beth’s help, to hold a long, hand-to-hand conversation with Betty.

It was evident at once from the nervous movements of Betty’s hands before the television camera that the affair of the night before had left her greatly excited.

They discussed the situation very thoroughly.

As they left the spotter shed Lieutenant Warren said, “It looks very much as if we were heading straight into a crisis of one sort or another. Such things as these can’t go on. Big planes don’t always crash-land safely in the sea.”

“They seldom do,” Norma added.

“That black pigeon of Betty’s was taken from the shore by some traitor to our cause, and put aboard some craft.”

“Probably the sub,” Norma suggested.

“Yes, and in this way every secret of our defense will in time leak out.”

“And any number of spies may land on our shores. Which leads us—

“To Carl Langer, his black pigeons, his rich estate, his masterpiece, and, just perhaps, to the Spanish hairdresser.” Norma found herself rather breathless at the end of this speech.

“You hope for too much,” was the Lieutenant’s quiet comment. “However, we will present Carl Langer with our calling card.”

The photographer was not at his studio but the girl who kept the shop in his absence offered to call him at the big house.

“Tell him that Norma Kent and Lieutenant Warren would like to see his masterpiece,” said Norma.

Word came over the wire at once that the great, little man would be delighted to see them.

“Now,” said Norma, as they drove through the gate, “if his three huge dogs don’t eat us up, peep and all, we’ll get on fine.”

Black pigeons, looking like dwarfed nuns, sat in rows on the barn roof, but no dogs appeared to announce their coming.

For all the world as if he had been watching at the keyhole, the photographer, whose hair seemed whiter and more bristling than ever, threw open the door the instant they rang the bell.

“Come in! Come in!” he welcomed.

“Mr. Langer, this is Lieutenant Warren,” said Norma.

For a brief space of time he studied the newcomer’s face intently. But Rita Warren was older than when she was in India. Then, too, she had made her face up rather well for the occasion and was wearing tinted glasses. Add to this fact that a woman’s olive-drab uniform is in itself something of a disguise, and it may not seem strange that at first, at least, he did not recognize her.

“But then,” Norma chided herself, “more than likely he is not the man at all. Spies who are shot seldom show up somewhere else!”

If Lieutenant Warren recognized the man, neither Norma nor Carl Langer could have detected it from her action. She thanked him for his interest and repeated her desire to see his masterpiece.

“You shall see it at once,” he assured them. “After that we will have some tea—tea brought straight from India. You don’t often get that. But first—”

He stepped to a table to press a hidden buzzer that sounded in a distant room.

“Is that for a servant or a couple of murderers?” Norma asked herself with a shudder. To Lieutenant Warren she whispered, “India!”

Lieutenant Warren lifted her eyebrows—that was all.

“Now if you will come this way,” said their strange host, leading the way.

As they passed down a long corridor, Norma stole a glance or two into other rooms. In one, whose door stood ajar, she saw an open traveling bag, half packed.

“What is that for?” she asked herself.

At the far end of the hall they entered a room where but one light shone. This came from a long slender tube close to the ceiling. This light fell upon a large canvas.

Striking a pose, Carl Langer said, “Well, what do you think?”

For a full sixty seconds he received no answer. They all stood there looking at the picture. One of those simple things that can, if well done, be magnificent, it showed a peasant youth and a maid in her middle teens seated among the stubble of a partly mown field. Beside them were their scythes and rake and a rustic lunch basket. Back of them was a shock of wheat and behind that the waving grain. On their faces were smiles and over their faces played the sunlight.

“It’s lovely,” was Norma’s comment.

“It may be a Millet,” Lieutenant Warren said slowly. “Surely it is like his work, but some of the colors are a little strange. There are overtones—”

“To be sure,” Carl Langer laughed hoarsely. “The picture has been neglected. I found it in an old church in a French-Canadian village. I am restoring it.”

Norma saw Lieutenant Warren start and stare. But she said never a word as they left the room.

As they prepared to take tea in the sunny living-room, a small brown man entered with a tray.

“You need not be afraid of Hanada,” said Langer with a forced laugh. “It is true that he is of Japanese blood, but his home is in India. He has never seen Japan.”

At that the little brown man showed all his teeth in a grin.

“I brought him with me from India,” was the hasty reply.

“So you have lived in India? How grand!” Norma exclaimed.

“Yes, I practiced my art there for several years. Only four years ago, I sold out and came to America.”

“Ah-ha,” Norma breathed.

“Has your successor been successful?” Lieutenant Warren asked in an even tone.

“Oh, yes, indeed. In fact, he has become a permanent resident,” was the odd reply.

“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Lieutenant Warren.

Norma barely suppressed a laugh. So it was the man who followed Carl Langer in India who had been shot as a spy!

All during the tea Carl Langer seemed ill at ease. His eyes often sought the room in which an open traveling bag awaited his return.

“Wonder if he is going on a journey?” Norma thought. The answer was—yes, a long, long journey.

“We’ll have to be going back,” Lieutenant Warren said at last. “Our watch changes very soon, and I must be there.”

Their host expressed polite, but uneasy regrets. They bade him a polite farewell and were away.

As their car started they were greeted by a loud roar as three huge dogs came leaping at their peep. They were, however, quite safe in the car; so, avoiding running over one of the beasts, they glided out of the gate and were away.

“Well?” Norma breathed deeply.

“Believe it or not,” said Lieutenant Warren, “he is my spy of India. I shall get Mr. Sperry on his trail first thing in the morning.”