business.” 

 It appeared that Blenkiron had reason to suspect that the channel still open had something to do with the North. He couldn’t get closer than that, till he heard from his people that a certain Abel Gresson had turned up in Glasgow from the States. This Gresson he discovered was the same as one Wrankester, who as a leader of the Industrial Workers of the World had been mixed up in some ugly cases of sabotage in Colorado. He kept his news to himself, for he didn’t want the police to interfere, but he had his own lot get into touch with Gresson and shadow him closely. The man was very discreet but very mysterious, and he would disappear for a week at a time, leaving no trace. For some unknown reason—he couldn’t explain why—Blenkiron had arrived at the conclusion that Gresson was in touch with Ivery, so he made experiments to prove it. 

 “I wanted various cross-bearings to make certain, and I got them the night before last. My visit to Biggleswick was good business.” 

 “I don’t know what they meant,” I said, “but I know where they came in. One was in your speech when you spoke of the Austrian socialists, and Ivery took you up about them. The other was after supper when he quoted the Weser Zeitung.” 

 “You’re no fool, Dick,” he said, with his slow smile. “You’ve hit the mark first shot. You know me and you could follow my process of thought in those remarks. Ivery, not knowing me so well, and having his head full of just that sort of argument, saw nothing unusual. Those bits of noos were pumped into Gresson that he might pass them on. And he did pass them on—to Ivery. They completed my chain.” 

 “But they were commonplace enough things which he might have guessed for himself.” 

 “No, they weren’t. They were the nicest tit-bits of political noos which all the cranks have been reaching after.” 

 “Anyhow, they were quotations from German papers. He might have had the papers themselves earlier than you thought.” 

 “Wrong again. The paragraph never appeared in the Weser Zeitung. But we faked up a torn bit of that noospaper, and a very pretty bit of forgery it was, and Gresson, who’s a kind of a scholar, was allowed to have it. He passed it on. Ivery showed it me two nights ago. Nothing like it ever sullied the columns of Boche journalism. No, it was a perfectly final proof.... Now, Dick, it’s up to you to get after Gresson.” 

 “Right,” I said. “I’m jolly glad I’m to start work again. I’m 

 Prev. P 36/277 next