Foot Guards will be here--”
“Sent, I think, from the Low Countries at the request of our agents at The Hague?”
“Ah, I see you are as well informed as usual. You are quite right. Are you,” he laughed, “ever wrong?”
The spy paused. “The communications then from ‘No. 101’ concern the military operations?” was all he said.
“Not yet. But,” he almost laughed, “we have a promise they will. You know the situation. This will be a critical year in Flanders. Great Britain and her allies propose to make a great, an unprecedented effort; his Royal Highness the Duke of Cumberland will have the supreme command. Unhappily the French under the Maréchal de Saxe apparently propose to make even greater efforts. With such a general as the Maréchal against us we cannot afford to neglect any means, fair or foul, by which his Royal Highness can defeat the enemy.”
“Then you wish me to assist ‘No. 101’ in betraying the French plans to our army under the Duke of Cumberland?”
“Not quite,” the other replied; “we cannot spare you as yet. But you have had dealings with this mysterious cipher, and we ask you to place all your experience at the disposal of Captain Statham.”
“I agree most willingly,” was the prompt answer.
“This curious ‘No. 101’,” continued the secretary slowly, “you do not know personally, I believe?”
The other was looking at him carefully but with a puzzled air.
“I ask because--because I am deeply curious.”
“I am as curious as yourself, sir. ‘No. 101’ is to me simply a cipher number,--nothing more, nothing less.”
“I feared so,” said the secretary. “But is it not incredible? The information sent always proves to be accurate, but there is never a trace of how, why, or by whom it is obtained.”
“That is so. Secrecy is the condition on which alone we get it. We pay handsomely--we obtain the truth--and we are left in the dark.”
“Shall we ever discover the secret, think you?”
“I am sure not.” The tone was conviction itself.
At this moment Captain Statham was ushered in, a typical English gentleman and officer, ruddy of countenance, blue-eyed, frankness and courage in every line of his handsome face and of his athletic figure.
“Captain Statham--Mr. George Onslow of the Secret Service--” the secretary began promptly, adding with a laugh as the two shook hands: “Ah, I see you have met before. I am not surprised. Mr. Onslow knows everybody and everything worth knowing.” He gathered up a bundle of papers. “That is the communication from ‘No. 101’ and the covering letter. And now, gentlemen, I will leave you to your business.” He bowed and left the room.
Onslow took the chair he had vacated and for a quarter of an hour Captain Statham and he chatted earnestly on the position of affairs in the Low Countries, and the war then raging from the Mediterranean to the North Sea, on the 

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