THE YELLOW DOVE
“H—m! You have a good memory?”
“Excellent.”
“Are you sure that the War Office knew of your movements?”
“Positive. I know of no one who would try to kill me”
“Rizzio?”
“Acting for England, yes.”
“And if he were acting for Germany?”
“Then he is a fool.”
Von Stromberg folded his long arms and gazed at the lamp.
“You do not feel that it would be possible to return at once?”
“Not unless I wished to be shot as a spy.”
“What will you do?”
“Take whatever service you will give me. Failing that I will volunteer for aviation.”
The General, without pursuing the subject further, motioned Hammersley to the door.
“You will find food ready. After eating you had better get to bed. I will talk with you further in the morning.”
As the door closed behind his visitor von Stromberg sank into the chair by the fire and lighted a third cigar, upon which he pulled steadily for some moments, rehearsing by question and reply almost every word of Hammersley’s story. By every rule of the game as he knew it Herr Hammersley should be a liar. And yet his story from first to last held water. There was not a flaw in its texture from beginning to end. If Hammersley had not told the truth he was the most skillful liar in Europe, a man who gave the appearance of truthfulness to the last hair of his head. And yet
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