by the local Exchange enabled the secret service agent to obtain employment forthwith.

That was all very well as far as it went, but the fact that he was actually at the works afforded Ludwig very few opportunities of getting in touch with the brains of the concern. So, after two futile attempts to hinder the work, Jim Sylvester obtained his discharge and disappeared from the neighbourhood.

By this time the spy had got to know the managing director and most of the principals by sight. His next step was to try to probe the secrets of the head office in Chilbolton Row.

Judicious inquiries resulted in the information that the Brocklington Ironworks Company's city premises were the ground floor of a large, somewhat dingy building. The second and third floors were occupied by shipping agents; the first floor was at present unoccupied.

Three days later Ludwig Schoeffer was in possession of the hitherto vacant rooms immediately over the Brocklington Ironworks Company's offices, but not as Ludwig Schoeffer. A card affixed to the door announced to anyone who had occasion to visit the upstairs offices that Mr. Josiah Sherringham, London agent for Messrs. Hoogenveen, bulb growers, of Haarlem, would be in attendance daily from ten to four. Since Messrs Hoogenveen, had no material existence, it was extremely unlikely that clients would call upon Mr. Josiah Sherringham. Nor did the tenant of the first floor want any. Usually the door was locked, generally from the outside, and inside whenever the directors of the Brocklington Ironworks Company held converse in the room below.

Amongst Mr. Josiah Sherringham's office furniture was a dictaphone, the mouthpiece of which was extended by means of a length of india-rubber tube and rested above a hole in the ceiling of the room below. Some years previously the premises had been renovated and electric light installed in place of gas, but the huge ornamental rose from which a chandelier once depended formed a convenient camouflage for the eavesdropper's operations.

Whenever the directors of Brocklington Ironworks Company held a board meeting, Ludwig Schoeffer was an unseen listener. Being rather particular about his appearance the spy invariably donned a suit of workmen's overalls, lest his clothes should show signs of having come in contact with the dusty floor. Fortnightly, transcribed records of the British firm's progress were transmitted to the Platz Alice at Chemnitz.

At length came the momentous meeting at which Captain Mostyn was to announce the result of the Kilba Protectorate Government's inspector's preliminary tests of the steelwork; and also the arrangements made for the shipment of the material to its destination.

The dictaphone was purring softly. Ludwig, on his hands and knees, had prized up some floor-boards and was listening to the report. In his eagerness he could not wait for the wax cylinders to tell him what was transpiring.

At a critical moment the dictaphone ceased functioning. The eavesdropper half rose to attend to the instrument. His knees slipped on the narrow joists, and the next instant, amidst a rending of laths and plaster, he landed on his back upon the table around which were seated the directors of the Brocklington Ironworks Company.

CHAPTER III

Reporting for Duty

"Now, Pater, tell me how you got on in town," prompted Peter.

"Famously! The inspector's report laid special emphasis upon the excellence of the castings, and I've no doubt that the final tests will be equally successful. We also secured very reasonable freightage. The West Barbican is not a fast vessel—fifteen knots is, I believe, her limit—but she will be able to deliver the goods well in advance of the time specified. It is certainly remarkable, Peter, that you should have been appointed to that same craft."

"I'm jolly glad," replied Peter. "It's about time I went afloat again. It looks as if I'm giving this winter a miss, eh? By the by, didn't you say something about a fellow tumbling through the ceiling?"

Captain Mostyn laughed.

"Yes, it was very funny," he replied. "We were all deep in business when there was a jolly old crash, and before we realized it there was a man—a workman—spread-eagled on the table. Winterton and Forsyth helped him up and asked if he were hurt. ''Urt?' he remarked bitterly. 'Not 'arf.' But he was able to walk without assistance. It seems that he was engaged in overhauling the electric-light fittings in the office over ours, and something carried away and let him down. It might have been worse.... Have you your kit ready?"

"Almost," was the rejoinder. "I'll have to go up to town on Wednesday, because my tropical outfit wants renewing. So we're to run round to Brocklington?"

"Yes," replied Captain Mostyn. "We've made arrangements for the steelwork to be shipped from there. Saves a lot of trouble sending it to East India Docks. We gain on the estimate that way, although, of course, we are practically chartering the West Barbican for two or three days."

At ten on the following Thursday Peter Mostyn boarded the West Barbican. The ship was of about 7000 tons, single funnelled, and with two stumpy masts with telescopic topmasts and a sheaf of derricks to each. She was still coaling and her decks were deep in grimy dust. With the exception of the officers the ship was manned by lascars—a novelty so far as Peter was concerned.

A burly, jovial-featured man in a grimy uniform, and wearing a muffler under the turned-up collar of his tunic, greeted Mostyn as he stepped off the gangplank.

"Hello, you're our Sparks, aren't you?" inquired the man. "My name's Preston when it's not Salthorse. Just now it ought to be Coaldust. I'll take you along to see the Old Man, and, when he's done with you, come to me for the keys of the wireless cabin. I'm Acting Chief."

Picking his way between coal-bags, dodging knots of bizarrely clad lascars, who with shrill cries dragged the sacks of fuel to the bunker shoots, Peter followed the Acting Chief Officer to the for'ard end of the boat-deck, where the skipper of the S.S. West Barbican had his cabin. Over the jalousied door was a brass plate with the word "Captain"; just below the plate was a card on which appeared, in bold and rather straggling handwriting, the intimation: "Don't knock—come in."

"Carry on, old son," urged Preston—and left Peter to his own devices.

For a brief instant Peter hesitated. Then, force of habit gaining the ascendancy, he knocked discreetly upon the white-enamelled door.

"What are you hanging on to the slack for?" demanded a bull voice. "Where are your blessed deadlights? Can't you read?"

The Wireless Officer opened the door and stepped briskly into the cabin.

Sitting in an arm-chair in front of a table littered with books and papers was a short, thick-set, bearded man. He was in his shirt-sleeves; a salt-stained uniform cap was perched on the back of his head, leaving exposed a wide, vein-traced forehead bordered on either side by closely cropped grey hair. His complexion was a dusky red, while his choleric blue eyes peered beneath a pair of beetling bushy eyebrows.

This was Mostyn's first impression of Captain Antonius Bullock, master of the good ship West Barbican.

"No doubt his bark is worse than his bite," soliloquized Peter, then, aloud, he said:

"I wish to report for duty, sir."

"Another time you come into my cabin do as you're told," growled the Old Man. "Can't waste my breath telling people to come in—may want it badly some day. Where's your permanent discharge book?"

Mostyn had the article ready to hand—one of those thin, blue-covered booklets which, according to Board of Trade Regulations, must be in the possession of every officer and man of the British Mercantile Marine. It is his passport through life as long as he remains under the Red Ensign, and