of guile. It was only about the lips, with their vague line of revolt, that Kestner could detect anything Ishmael-like, anything significant of her career and calling.
"That's right," muttered Wilsnach, as he bent over his illustrated paper. "Get her good—she's the kind who'll need it!"
"That's where I think you're wrong," remarked the Secret Agent, as he noted the haughtiness of the well-poised head. "I could spot her among a million."
"But you'll never see her there to be spotted," amended Wilsnach. "She's the one they keep out of sight in working hours."
"Tell me about 'em," said the listless-eyed Kestner.
Wilsnach drew his iron chair a little closer to the table.
"It took us over seven months to fine-comb what we know about them out of six different cities. You see, we could only spot them on the wing, the same as I spotted them to-day when I 'phoned you."
"Who's the man?" asked Kestner.
"He's carrying the name of Lambert, just at present. In Budapest he was known as Hartmann. In Rome it's probably something else. But we're sure of one thing: he's the manager of their little circle. He's also their paper expert. He's perfected a bleaching process of his own, and he's the only man in Europe who can re-fill cheque perforations. He's also a finished etcher and engraver, and an expert in inks and colour-work."
"Now the woman," prompted Kestner.
"She's the old man's daughter, as far as we can
