"The Wimpel woman?"
"Not a trace of her so far!"
There was a moment's pause.
"And the other woman?" asked the man in the half-demolished make-up, "the woman called Maura?
The other man permitted himself the luxury of a smile.
"Has set up a miniature-painting studio on the other side of this block, as I first wired you. A showcase of 'em in the window! And not even a stab at secrecy!"
"And you say she's put in a telephone?"
"The wiring goes to the top of the house, across a couple of others, and from there rounds south to the street-main. I've traced it out. It can be reached from the roof of this building!"
"That's worth a mint to us," murmured the other. "And it hasn't been interfered with?"
"I left that expert work for you."
"Then the sooner we get a loop in that circuit the better!"
"You may be right, but, Kestner, I think your gang has flown the coop!"
It was Wilsnach who spoke, but not the shabby and self-effacing Wilsnach of the rue de la Paix. Instead, it was a dandified, edition-de-luxe Wilsnach as a tourist in peg-top trousers and pointed patent leathers, a Wilsnach with a waist line and a waxed imperial.
Kestner pulled off the iron-grey wig that had been making his head uncomfortably warm.
"I think you're wrong," he replied without emo-
