looked at them foolishly, as though he dreaded meeting Kestner's eye.
Wilsnach's face seemed heavy and colourless in the uncertain light. Yet there was something solemn and authoritative about it as he clutched at the door-post. He even refused to move aside as Kestner pushed peevishly against him.
"I want that man," proclaimed the Secret Agent.
Wilsnach looked at him almost pityingly. He looked at him for a long time.
"You can't have him," he said at last.
"What?" It was more a bark than a definitely articulated interrogation.
Wilsnach put the hand-cuffs in his pocket and caught his friend by the arm, just below the elbow.
"He's gone!" he quietly announced.
"Gone?" echoed the other, now tugging to free himself.
"You can't go in, old man!" contended Wilsnach. "It's no use!"
"But Lambert's in there!"
"He's there! But you can't get him!"
"I've got to get him!"
The look of pity went out of Wilsnach's face. He seemed to lose patience at the other man's unlooked for heaviness of mind. But he began to push Kestner back from the doorway, step by step.
"What good 's he to you," was his almost angry demand, "when he's dead?"
It was Kestner's turn to stare a long time at his comrade of the Paris Office. Carefully every detail
