amp the consul, as though it were alive and menacing, stared
at it in fascination. Moving stiffly, he turned it so that Hemingway
could see. On it Hemingway read, "George S. Sheyer," and, on a lower
line, "Representing William L. Pinkerton."

To the woman he loved the calamity they dreaded had come, and
Hemingway, with a groan of dismay, exclaimed aloud:

"It is the end!"

From the darkness of the outer office a man stepped softly into the
circle of the lamp. They could see his figure only from the waist
down; the rest of him was blurred in shadows.

"'It is the end'?" he repeated inquiringly. He spoke the phrase with
peculiar emphasis, as though to impress it upon the memory of the two
others. His voice was cool, alert, authoritative. "The end of what?"
he demanded sharply.

The question was most difficult. In the silence the detective moved
into the light. He was tall and strongly built, his face was shrewd
and intelligent. He might have been a prosperous man of business.

"Which of you is the consul?" he asked. But he did not take his eyes
from Hemingway.

"I am the consul," said Harris. But still the detective did not turn
from Hemingway.

"Why," he asked, "did this gentleman, when he read my card, say, 'It is
the end'? The end of what? Has anything been going on here that came to
an end when he saw my card?"

Disconcerted, in deep embarrassment, Harris struggled for a word. But
his distress was not observed by the detective. His eyes, suspicious
and accusing, still were fixed upon Hemingway, and under their scrutiny
Harris saw his friend slowly retreat, slowly crumple up into a chair,
slowly raise his hands to cover his face. As though in a nightmare, he
heard him saying savagely:

"It is the end of two years of hell, it is the end of two years of fear
and agony! Now I shall have peace. Now I shall sleep! I thank God
you've come! I thank God I can go back!"

Harris broke the spell by leaping to his feet. He sprang between the
two men.

"What does this mean?" he commanded.

Hemingway raised his eyes and surveyed him steadily.

"It means," he said, "that I have deceived you, Harris--that I am the
man you told me of, I am the man they want." He turned to the officer.

"I fooled him for four months," he said. "I couldn't fool you for five
minutes."

The eyes of the detective danced with sudden excitement, joy, and
triumph. He shot an eager glance from Hemingway to the consul.

"