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"Don't disturb a thing," remarked Kennedy, cautiously picking up
even the burnt matches he had dropped in his hasty search. "We
must devise some means of catching the eavesdropper red handed. It
has all the marks of being an inside job."
We had completed our investigation of the basement without
attracting any attention, and Craig was careful to make it seem
that in entering the library we came from the den, not from the
cellar. As we waited in the big leather chairs Kennedy was
sketching roughly on a sheet of paper the plan of the house,
drawing in the location of the various wires.
The door opened. We had expected John Brixton. Instead, a tall,
spare foreigner with a close-cropped moustache entered. I knew at
once that it must be Count Wachtmann, although I had never seen
him.
"Ah, I beg your pardon," he exclaimed in English which betrayed
that he had been under good teachers in London. "I thought Miss
Brixton was here."
"Count Wachtmann?" interrogated Kennedy, rising.
"The same," he replied easily, with a glance of inquiry at us.


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