tion which is of the greatest importance." He repeated the words—"the greatest importance."
"If you give me the letter," said Beale, "I will see that it is sent on to him," and he held out his hand with the assurance of one who shared the dearest secrets of the doctor. The stranger's hand wandered to his breast pocket, but came back empty.
"No, it must be given—I must see the doctor himself," he said. "He does not expect me and I will wait."
Beale thought quickly.
"Well, perhaps you will come upstairs to my flat and wait," he said genially, and led the way, and the man, still showing evidence of uneasiness, was ushered into his room, where the sight of the Rev. Parson Homo tended to reassure him.
Would he have tea? He would not have tea. Would he take coffee? He would not take coffee. A glass of wine perhaps? No, he did not drink wine nor beer, nor would he take any refreshment whatever.
"My man," thought the desperate Beale, "I either chloroform you or hit you on the head with the poker, but I am going to see that letter."
As if divining his thought, but placing thereon a wrong construction, the man said:
"I should avail myself of your kindness to deliver my letter to Doctor van Heerden, but of what service would it be since it is only a letter introducing me to the good doctor?"
"Oh, is that all?" said Beale, disappointed, and somehow he knew the man spoke the truth.
"That is all," he said, "except of course my message, which is verbal. My name is Stardt, you may have heard the doctor speak of me. We have had some correspondence."
"Yes, yes, I remember," lied Beale.
"The message is for him alone, of course, as you will understand, and if I deliver it to you," smiled Herr Stardt, "you should not understand it, because it is one word."
"One word?" said Beale blankly. "A code—hang!"
