"But westbound to where?"
"To New York."
"New York!" repeated Kestner, as he sat back, deep in thought. The watch-case receiver was still being held close against his ear.
"Just why should those people be interested in the Pannonia?" he ruminated aloud.
"Anything on the wire now?" inquired Wilsnach. Kestner shook his head.
Yet Wilsnach stood waiting, with the feeling that there were vast issues in the air. He watched his colleague light a fresh cigar and decided that Kestner, as usual, was smoking too much.
"Could you give me a hint or two about that plant of theirs?" he finally ventured.
Kestner tossed the silk-covered wires back over his shoulder. The movement reminded the other man of a girl tossing aside her troublesome braids.
"It's about where I thought it would be, only with a difference. They're using this woman, of course, as their stick-up. The rear door of her place opens on a garden planted with lemon trees. There's a narrow passage running under the stone walk that lies between those lemon trees. It leads from the cellar of her house right through to the broken-down villa backing it. They've taken the old wine-cellar there and wired it and fitted it up for a work-shop. They've even got a forced-draught ventilating system, for it's all underground, you see, and shut off with silence doors. And they've got a sweet collection of contraband stuff there!"
"Such as?"
