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SECRET NAVAL INVESTIGATOR
 SECRET NAVAL INVESTIGATOR
The Battle Against Hitler’s Secret Underwater
Weapons

Commander F. Ashe Lincoln QC, RNVR

Preface by Commander Del McKnight RN

FRONTLINE BOOKS
 SECRET NAVAL INVESTIGATOR
The Battle Against Hitler’s Secret Underwater Weapons

This edition published in 2017 by Frontline Books,

an imprint of Pen & Sword Books Ltd,
47 Church Street, Barnsley, S. Yorkshire, S70 2AS

First published by William Kimber & Co. Limited, London, 1961.

Copyright © Commander F. Ashe Lincoln QC, RNVR.

Preface copyright © Commander Del McKnight RN

The right of Commander F. Ashe Lincoln QC, RNVR to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in
accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

ISBN: 978-1-52670-119-0
eISBN: 978-1-52670-121-3
Mobi ISBN: 978-1-52670-120-6

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted,
in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission
of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution
and civil claims for damages.

CIP data records for this title are available from the British Library

For more information on our books, please visit

www.frontline-books.com
email [email protected]
or write to us at the above address.
 Contents

Preface by Commander Del McKnight RN

Introduction
Chapter 1 How It All Began
Chapter 2 The First Magnetic Mine
Chapter 3 Early Detective Work
Chapter 4 DTM Investigation Section is Formed
Chapter 5 A New Danger – The First Acoustic Mine
Chapter 6 Luck Assists But Death Strikes
Chapter 7 We Discover a New Mine
Chapter 8 The U-570
Chapter 9 To Sea With the Champion Minesweeper
Chapter 10 We Hunt The Enemy
Chapter 11 The First Japanese Torpedoes
Chapter 12 The Seine Bay Invasion Mystery
Chapter 13 The Discovery of the Acoustic Torpedo
Chapter 14 Across the Rhine
 Preface

W hen I was originally asked if I would pen a few words of introduction to the book you
now hold in your hands, I was both flattered and surprised. As the Commanding Officer
of the Royal Navy’s Fleet Diving Squadron, it is true I do lead the elite units which, often at
high readiness, provide everything from support to special operations, mine countermeasures,
bomb disposal on land and at sea and underwater engineering. However, there are many
individuals more closely involved in the fight today than I.
It seemed to me, initially at least, that we are a far cry from our predecessors; the heroic
men and women who fought for the very survival of our nation during the dark days of the early
1940s. On reading the book, however, I discovered many more parallels than I had expected to
find. Like Commander Ashe, we have struggled, in recent years, with ingenious individuals
and organisations who have tried to invent ever more intricate ways to defeat our explosive
ordnance disposal techniques.
In Northern Ireland, Afghanistan and across the Middle East, to name but a few of the places
naval personnel have had to deploy, often far from the sea, we have had to use our wits and
intelligence to defeat the cunning of the bomb-maker. In addition, my teams have deployed to
clear many of the sea mines off Iraq and the Falklands that would have been familiar to the
people in this book. Indeed, even today, my units in the UK are often called upon to deal with
the type of historic bombs and mines described in the following pages.
As a history enthusiast, and someone who strongly believes in the need to study the past to
avoid mistakes in the future, I have read many similar accounts of conflicts. This is not a dry
tome, however, to be studied only by academics and those who wish to bolster their thesis. It is
an entertaining and often witty read which sheds light on many of the very human aspects of the
war in Europe between 1939 and 1945. It shows the very real worries and concerns of the
brave individuals who used their skills and intelligence to defeat the cuttingedge technology of
the time that, had it succeeded, might have cut off the flow of men and material so essential to
the ultimate victory. The ground mines of the time incorporated both extremely inventive
methods of actuation but also booby traps aimed at defeating the EOD expert and ensuring the
mines’ secrets remained just that, secret. Had we not worked out how to defeat these weapons
it would have led to debilitating losses of merchant vessels supplying the very life blood of the
nation, as well as ceding control of the oceans.
In addition, Commander Ashe’s work in facilitating the Allied armies’ crossing of the Rhine,
and the protection of the supply lines from attack to ensure the flow of ammunition and
reinforcements, was essential.
Who would have thought that Royal Navy personnel would have been employed deep in the
heart of Europe, miles from any sea, in a vital role to bring about the defeat of Germany?
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 "It's about as tough as they make 'em," growled the policeman.
"There's a sight more throuble in that darty den than in all the
others on the beat."
I thanked the policeman and bade him good night.
"Good night, sor. I'm hoping you won't need anything more
from me, sor. But just blow a whistle if ye are in chance of throuble,
and I'll do my best for ye."
And with this cheerful parting ringing in my ears, I swung back
the doors and stepped into the saloon, with the shadow of a wish
that the Council of Nine had shown better taste in headquarters.
I found myself in a long, low-ceiled room, lighted by a dozen
lamps that struggled to overpower the tobacco smoke that filled it. A
dingy, painted bar stretched half-way down the side of the room,
and behind it a cracked mirror and a gaudy array of bottles served
for ornament and use. Below the bar the room jutted back into an L,
where a half-dozen tables were scattered about. The floor was
littered with sawdust, trampled and soiled with many feet, and
mottled with many a splotch of tobacco juice.
I looked about for Clark and his companions. Five or six
loungers leaned against the bar, listening to a stout, red-faced
Irishman, who was shaking his fist vigorously as an accompaniment
to a loud denunciation of the Chinese. There was something about
the man that drew a second look, though at first glance I thought I
had recognized the symptoms of the saloon politician. He had a
bristling brown mustache, a shrewd mouth, and a strong aggressive
jaw. A little above the medium height, with compact, heavy frame,
and broad shoulders that betokened strength, he was a type of the
substantial workman.
 Beyond the oratorical Irishman with his denunciations of "the
haythen divils," stood a man with hat drawn down over his eyes, half
hiding his sallow face, and with hands deep in his pockets, who
glanced furtively from side to side, as if in suspicion that an enemy
was about. Something faintly stirred in memory at the sight of him,
but he shuffled out of the saloon as I passed him, and it was not
until he was gone that I connected him with the spy whose overcoat
lay in my room. It was too late to follow him, for, before I had
recalled the vagrant memory, a short fat old man waddled slowly
forward and stood before me with the air of a proprietor. I divined
that I was face to face with H. Blasius.
"Vat vill you have, mine friend?" he inquired deliberately.
I looked into his fat pasty face, that gave back an unhealthy
almost livid pallor to the light that shone upon it, and caught the
glance of his shifty bleary eyes under their puffy lids, and a shudder
of repulsion ran through me. He was a man of sixty or more. His
face, clean-shaven except for a mustache and chin-tuft stained with
tobacco juice, revealed to the world every line that a wicked life had
left upon it.
He rubbed his fat, moist hands on the dingy white apron that he
wore, gave a tug at his mustache, and waited for my reply.
"I'm looking for Mr. Clark," I said.
"Non--no soch man is here," he said suspiciously. "I have no
one of zat name."
"I'm quite sure he's here," I said. "And I must see him."
The brow of H. Blasius darkened, and he looked about slowly as
though he meditated calling for assistance to hasten my departure.
 "I don't vant ze trouble," he had begun, when I caught sight of
my man at a table in the alcove at the other end of the long room.
"There he is now," I interrupted. "There'll be no trouble, if you
don't make it yourself."
I was gone before H. Blasius had brought his wits to understand
my meaning, and in a moment stood beside a group of men who
were sitting around the farther table, beer glasses before them and
pipes in hand, listening to an excited young man with a shock of
long, tawny hair, who pounded the table to strengthen the force of
his argument. As he came to a pause, I put my hand on the
shoulder of a tall, awkward, spare-built man, with a stubby red
beard, who was listening with effort, and evidently burning to reply
to the fervid young orator. It was Clark, and he rose clumsily and
shook hands with effusion.
"I'm glad you come, Mr. Hampden; I'd about give you up. Boys,
this is Mr. Hampden, the friend I was telling you about. Won't you
take this chair, sir, and spend the evening with us? We was having a
little discussion about the Revolution."
"The Revolution!" I exclaimed. "Well, that's a safe antiquarian
topic."
"Oh," stammered Clark, "it isn't the old Revolution. That's too
far back for us. It's the coming Revolution we're talking about, when
all men are to be equal and share alike in the good things of the
earth. Parks, here, thinks he knows all about it." And he waved his
hand toward the oratorical young man, who looked on the world
with eyes that seemed to burn with the light of fever.
Parks accepted this as an introduction, and acknowledged it
with a nod as I took a seat. I looked at him with keen interest, for I
knew his name as one of the nine leaders who had banded
themselves to right the wrongs of the world--with the incidental
assistance of Peter Bolton. Then I looked about the rest of the group
as Clark spoke their names, and was disappointed to find that a little
spectacled German, with a bristling black beard, was the only other
member of the Council at the table.
"Hope to know you better, Mr. Hampden," said Parks. "You don't
look to be one of us."
"If it's a secret society, I can't say that I've been initiated," I
said. "But I hope you'll count me as one of you for an occasional
evening. What do you happen to be, if I may ask?"
"We," said Parks, leaning forward and gazing fiercely into my
eyes, "we represent the people. We are from the masses."
"I'm afraid, then," I returned with a laugh, "you'll have to count
me as one of you. I can't think of any way in which my name gets
above the level of the lower ten million."
"Sir," cried Parks, shaking his finger in my face and speaking
rapidly and excitedly, "your speech betrays you. You speak of the
lower ten million. They are not the lower--no, by Heaven! Your heart
is not with the people. There is nothing in you that beats responsive
to their cry of distress. You may be as poor as the rest of us, but
your feelings, your prejudices are with the despoilers of labor, the
oppressors of the lowly. You are--"
What further offense of aristocracy he would have charged upon
my head I know not, for Clark reached over and seized his arm.
"Hold on!" he cried. "Mr. Hampden is our guest and a good
fellow, so don't be too hard on him. He ain't educated yet. That's all
the matter with him. Give him time."
 Parks' voice had been rising and his utterance had been growing
more rapid and excited, but he lowered his tones once more.
"No offense, Hampden, but my blood boils at the wrongs
inflicted on the downtrodden slaves of the wage system, and I speak
my mind."
"Oh, go ahead," I said. "It doesn't worry me. Come to think of
it, Mr. Parks, you don't seem to be one of the slaves of the wage
system yourself. You are, I take it from your words and ways, a man
of education and something more."
"Sir," said Parks, striking the table angrily, "it is my misfortune."
"Misfortune?" I laughed inquiringly, and the others laughed in
sympathy.
"Misfortune--yes, sir. I repeat it. I have had schooling and to
spare. And if it wasn't for that, I could raise this city in arms in a
month."
My left-hand neighbor was an old man, a little bent with years,
who had been looking about the table with dreamy eye. But at
Parks' boastful words his face lighted and he gave a cackling laugh.
"Heh, heh! He's right," he said, addressing the rest of us.
"There's a crowd of thieves and robbers on top and they need a
taking-down. Parks is just the one to do it."
"You're wrong, Merwin," said Parks, calming down and looking
at the old man reflectively. "I'm not the one to do it."
"And why not?" I asked.
"It's the cursed education you speak of," said Parks fiercely. "I
am with the masses, but not of them. They mistrust me. Try as I will
I can't get their confidence. I can't rouse them. They shout for me,
they applaud me, but I can't stir them as they must be stirred before
the Revolution can begin."
"What sort of man do you want?" I asked.
"He must be a man of the people," said Parks.
"By which you mean a day-laborer, I judge."
Parks ignored the interruption and went on:
"He must have eloquence, courage, and he must understand
men; he must be a statesman by nature--a man of brains. But he
must be one of the class he addresses."
"But how are you going to get a man of brains out of that
class?" I inquired.
Parks struck the table a sounding blow with his fist, shook his
head until his shock of hair stood out in protest, and glared at me
fiercely.
"Do you mean to deny," he began hotly, "that brains are born to
what you call the lowest classes? Do you deny the divine spark of
intelligence to the sons of toil? Do you say that genius is sent to the
houses of the rich and not to those of the poor? Do you dare to say
that the son of a banker may have brains and that the son of a
hodman may not?"
"By no means, my dear fellow. I only say if he has brains he
won't be a hodman."
"I've known some pretty smart hodmen in my time," said Clark,
when he saw that Parks had no answer ready. "I knew a fellow who
made four hundred dollars on a contract. But," he added regretfully,
"he lost it in stocks."
"I'm afraid that instance doesn't prove anything, Clark," said
Merwin with a thin laugh. "He should have had brains enough to
keep out of stocks."
"There's not many as has that," said a heavy-jowled Englishman
who sat across the table. "I wish I had 'em myself."
"I'm afraid you're right, Mr. Hampden," said Clark. "We can't get
a leader from the hodman class."
Parks leaned forward and spoke quietly and impressively.
"By God, we must!" he said. "I'll be the brains. I'll find the
hodman for the mouth, and I'll teach him to talk in a way to set the
world on fire."
"And then what?" I asked.
Parks gave his head a shake, and closed his lips tightly as
though he feared that some secret would escape them. But the
excitable little German with spectacles and a bushy black beard gave
me an answer.
"Leeberty, equality, fraternity!" he exclaimed.
"And justice," added the heavy-jowled Englishman.
"These are words, and very good ones," I returned. "But what
do you mean by them? You have these things now, or you don't
have them--just as you happen to look at it. It usually depends on
whether you are successful or not. What does all this mean in
action?"
"For one thing," said the square-jawed man seriously, "it means
an end of the sort of robbery by law that our friend Merwin here has
suffered. Now, twenty years ago he was a prosperous contractor. He
took a lot of contracts from old Peter Bolton for filling in some of
these water-front blocks down here. He spent two hundred and fifty
thousand dollars, d'ye know, and has been lawing for it ever since."
 I turned and looked at the face of the old man with more
interest. The case of Merwin against Bolton was celebrated in the
law books. It was now before the Supreme Court for the sixth time.
In the trial court the juries had invariably found for Merwin with
costs and interest, and the appellate court had as invariably sent the
case back for retrial on errors committed by the lower court, until it
had become an impersonal issue, a jest of the law, a legal ghost,
almost as far removed from affairs of to-day as "Shelley's case" of
unblessed memory.
Merwin looked up quickly, the dreamy gaze no longer clouding
his eye.
"I have been kept out of my property for more than twenty
years, sir," he said. "It has been a great wrong. If you are interested
I should like to tell you about it."
"I am pretty well informed about it already," I replied. "You have
been much abused." The legal jest had become a living tragedy, and
I felt a glow of shame for the futility of the law that had been unable
to do justice to this man.
"I have been made a poor man," said Merwin. "My money was
stolen from me by Peter Bolton, and I tell you, sir, he is the greatest
scoundrel in the city." And in a sudden flash of temper he struck his
fist upon the table.
"He ought to be hanged," said the heavy-jowled man.
"No, no," cried Parks. "It isn't Bolton you should blame. It is the
system that makes such things possible. Bolton himself is but the
creature of circumstances. As I have reason to know, his heart is
stirred by thoughts of better things for humanity. Hang Bolton and
another Bolton would take his place to-morrow. Abolish the system,
and no man could oppress his neighbor."
"But how are you going to abolish it?" I asked. "It won't go for
fine words."
"Rouse the people," cried Parks with passion. "The men who are
suffering from these evils are the strength of the nation. Those who
profit by the evils are a small minority. Once the people rise in their
might the oppressors must fly or be overwhelmed."
"Here's to guns, and the men who know how to use them!" said
the heavy-jowled man, draining his glass.
"Oui, oui! Vive la barricade!" croaked a harsh voice behind me,
and I turned to see the pasty face of H. Blasius over my shoulder.
"Shut up!" said Parks. "We're not ready to talk of guns and
barricades."
At this moment a sudden noise of scuffle and angry voices rose
above the sounds of conversation and argument that filled the room.
Some one made an abortive attempt to blow a police whistle; curses
and blows thrilled the air; and then the swinging doors fell apart and
a man staggered in, holding dizzily to the door-post for support. His
hat was crushed, his clothing torn, and his face covered with blood
that seemed to blind him.
As he staggered into the saloon, ten or twelve young men,
hardly more than boys, crowded after him, striking at him with fists
and clubs. Their faces were hard at best, the lines written upon
them by vice and crime giving plain warning to all who might read;
but now rage and hatred and lust for blood lighted their eyes and
flushed their cheeks, till they might have stood as models for
escapes from the infernal regions.
 "The cop!" cried a voice; and others took it up, and I recognized
in the battered man the policeman who had shown me my way.
"He's the cop as got Paddy Rafferty sent across the bay for ten
years," shouted one of the hoodlums, striking a blow that was barely
warded off.
"Kick him!" "Do him up!" "Kill him!" came in excited chorus from
all parts of the room and swelled into a roar that lost semblance of
articulate sound.
Parks and I jumped to our feet at the first sound of the riot.
"Here! this won't do!" said Parks roughly, throwing me back in
my chair. "Sit down! You'll get killed without doing any good. I'll
settle this." And before I could remonstrate he was running down
the room shouting wrathfully.
As I got to my feet again, I saw him pulling and hauling at the
mob, shouting lustily in the ears of the men as he threw them aside.
"Come on!" I cried. "We must take a hand in this." And at my
call Clark and the Englishman and the little German rose and
followed in the wake of the young agitator.
Parks worked his way into the crowd, shouting, appealing, using
hands and tongue and body at once to carry his point. He was soon
at the side of the policeman, who swayed, half raised his arms, and
would have fallen had Parks' arm not come to steady him. The
shouting hoodlums paused at this reinforcement. Then the leader,
with a curse, struck wildly at Parks' face, and the cries of rage rose
louder than before. At this moment, however, the tall, broad-
shouldered Irishman, whom I had noticed at my entrance, deftly
caught the hoodlum with a blow on the chin that sent him back into
the midst of his band.
 "Hould on!" he shouted in a resonant voice. "There's to be fair
play here! Here's two against the crowd to save a man's life. If
there's any more men here let them come next us."
"Here are four," I cried, and our reinforcement shouldered
through the throng to the side of the two defenders. The tumult
stilled for a little, and Parks seized the moment to burst into
indignant speech. He had a high, keen, not unpleasant voice, though
it thrilled now with anger and scorn, as he denounced the assault.
"He's the cop that got Paddy Rafferty sent up, I tell you," replied
one of the hoodlums. "We said we'd fix him and we done it."
"Well, you get home now or you'll be fixed yourself, sonny," said
Parks. "The cops will be on you in just three minutes by the watch.
Git!"
"Come on, youse!" said the leader sullenly, rubbing his jaw and
giving a spiteful glance at the stout Irishman. "We'll fix these tarriers
some other time,"--and the band slunk out into the darkness.
"That's the kind of cattle that keep back the cause," cried Parks,
turning to the crowd with keen eye for the opportunity for speech.
And he went on with rude eloquence to expound the "rights of the
people," which I judged from his language to be the right to work
eight hours for about eight dollars a day and own nobody for master.
"Well said for you, Mr. Parks!" said the Irishman. "I'm of your
way of thinkin'. My name's Kearney--Denis Kearney--maybe you've
heard of me."
"Maybe I have," said Parks. "I hope to hear more of you, Mr.
Kearney. You came in the nick of time to-night."
The policeman now sat in a chair with his face washed and his
head bound up in a cloth, and with a sip of liquor was recovering
strength and spirit.
"There comes the boys," he said. "They've heard of the shindy."
And in another minute four policemen burst into the place.
"Cowdery's gang!" was the brief comment of the commanding
officer. "We'll have them under lock and key before morning."
H. Blasius had assumed a most pious expression in a most
inconspicuous position behind the bar, but dropped it as the
policemen left.
"I've found my hodman," whispered Parks to me.
"Where?"
"Here. He isn't a hodman, but he's just as good. He's a drayman
with a voice like a fog-horn and a gift of tongue."
"And the brains?"
"I carry them under my hat," said Parks.
"What's his name?"
"Mr. Kearney--Mr. Hampden," said Parks, raising his voice and
introducing me gravely. Then, taking the arm of his new-found
treasure, Parks walked out of the saloon.

CHAPTER III
A GLIMPSE OF SUNSHINE

My watch-hands pointed to eight o'clock as I was ushered into

Wharton Kendrick's library. It was a handsome room, with handsome
books and handsome solid leather-covered furniture to match the
leather-covered volumes that lined its walls, but the effect of dark
walls, dark ceilings, and dark bindings was a trifle gloomy. I made up
my mind that my library should be a light and cheerful room with
white and gold trimmings, and was trying to decide whether it
should be in the southwest or southeast corner of my château in
Spain, when my architectural studies were interrupted by the
opening of a door.
I rose in the expectation of meeting my employer; but it was
not my employer who entered. Instead of Wharton Kendrick I found
myself facing a young woman, who halted, irresolute and surprised,
a pace or two from the door. Had it not been for her trailing dress I
should at first glance have thought her but a young girl. She was
short of stature and slender of figure, and for an instant I had the
idea that the long gown and the arrangement of the yellow hair that
crowned her head were part of a masquerade. But when I looked in
her face I saw that she was a woman grown, and her years might
have reached twenty.
"Why, I didn't know you were here," said the startled intruder.
Her voice was even-pitched, but it had a curious piquant quality
about it.
As I hesitated in surprise, she repeated her thought in more
positive form: "I didn't know that any one was here."
"I was waiting for Mr. Kendrick. I was told to wait here," I said
apologetically.
The gas-light fell on her face and I saw that she was pretty. Her
head was small, but well shaped. Her color was that of the delicate
blonde type, but her large eyes were of a deep brown.
"I don't believe you know me, after all," she said, with a sudden
mischievous look.
 I wanted to lie, but my tongue refused its office.
"You'd better not tell any stories," she added.
"I'm afraid--" I began.
"Oh, if you're afraid I shall go away. I was going to read a book,
but it doesn't matter."
"I'm sure it does matter," I said. "If you go away I shall certainly
feel as though I'm the one who ought to have gone."
"I don't believe I ought to stay here talking with a man who
thinks he doesn't know me."
"I'm a very stupid person, I fear," I said.
"I'm afraid some people would say so," she said with another
mischievous look, though her face was perfectly grave; "but I
shouldn't dare."
"I'm on the lookout for a good bargain," I said desperately. "I
should like very much to exchange names with you."
"Oh, that wouldn't be a fair exchange at all," said the girl,
shaking her head gravely. "I know Mr. Hampden's name already. You
must offer a better bargain than that."
"Then I must sue for pardon for a treacherous memory," I said.
"It's a very serious matter," said the girl, "but I'll give you three
chances to guess. If that's not enough, you'll have to ask uncle."
"Miss Laura--Miss Kendrick!" I exclaimed.
"Oh, did I tell you, after all?" she cried in dismay. "I said uncle,
didn't I? Now, you see, I'm quite as stupid as other people."
"Indeed, no," I said. "It's quite unpardonable that I should have
forgotten."
"It ought to be, but I'm afraid I shall have to forgive you," she
said, dropping into a chair. "It's a longish time."
 "How many years has it been?" I asked.
"I'm afraid you're adding to your offenses," she said, with a
shake of the head. "You should certainly remember that it was five
years ago this summer."
"Have you been away so long?" I exclaimed.
"Oh, dear! what shall I do with such a man? First he doesn't
remember me at all, and then he doesn't know how many years I've
been gone, and then he has no idea it was so long."
"But you were only a little girl then," I urged.
"And not worth noticing, would you say if you dared? I used to
think I was quite grown up in those days."
"You didn't--er--quite give the impression."
"I see I didn't make one," she said. "It's a very good lesson for
one's vanity, isn't it?"
"And haven't you been back in all these years?"
"'All these years' sounds better," she said. "I believe you are
learning. I've been back twice, if you want your question answered."
"It was kept quite a secret."
"Oh, dear, no! Everybody knew who cared anything about
knowing."
"And where have you been, and what doing?"
"I was in the East. First I finished the seminary."
"And then?"
"Then I went through college."
"Indeed?"
"Oh, you needn't be so surprised. It's nothing so very
wonderful. You didn't suspect it from my looks?"
"You certainly don't look like a blue-stocking."
 "I'm afraid I'm not. I never could get enough into my head at
one time to be worthy of such a title. I believe a blue-stocking is a
lady who has a great deal of learning."
"Or at least," I said, "is very fond of showing it."
"Oh, I think I have her main characteristic then," laughed my
companion. "If I know anything I can't rest till I let somebody else
know about it, too."
"I believe you're not alone. They say that failing has descended
to all the daughters of Mother Eve. How long are you to be here?" I
asked.
"Ages, I'm afraid," said Miss Kendrick. "Six months at least--
maybe a year."
"Then I can hope for the pleasure of seeing you sometimes?" I
said.
"I don't know," she answered, appealing to a bust of Homer on
a book-shelf. "Do you think a man with such an uncertain memory
could be trusted to keep it in mind that such a person is here?"
"I can vouch for him," I said.
"If you're quite sure--" she said.
"Quite sure," I repeated positively.
"Then you can be told that we are at home on Thursdays.
There--I hear uncle showing that comical General Wilson out the
door, so I'll be getting my book and go. It was uncle you came to
see, I believe."
"It was Mr. Kendrick I called for, but--"
"You needn't go on," interrupted Miss Kendrick calmly. "I
suppose you think it is only a white one, but I'd rather not hear it.
Now if you wouldn't mind reaching that fourth book from the end of
the second row from the top, you'll save me from the mortification of
climbing on a chair."
"This one?"
"Yes, please," she said. "Thank you. Good night. I really don't
see why I've talked so much."
"It was very good of you," I protested. "Good night."
The swish of her skirts had hardly died away when the opposite
door--the one by which I had entered--opened, and Wharton
Kendrick walked in.
"Come this way, Wilson. I can put my hand on the book in one
second."
"You can't find your citation, Kendrick--it isn't there," said a
short, stout, red-faced man, with short yellow-gray side-whiskers, as
he bustled in the wake of my client. "I tell you you can't find it. I
know the whole thing from cover to cover. Just give me the first line
of any page and I'll repeat it right to the bottom. I never have to
read a thing more than once and I can carry it on the tip of my
tongue for years afterward. Lord bless us, whom have we here?"
"Oh, Hampden," said Kendrick. "I didn't see you. General
Wilson, allow me to introduce you." And the magnate gave me a
kind word of identification.
"A lawyer?" exclaimed General Wilson, his red face beaming in
the frame of his yellow-gray side-whiskers. "Young man, you are
entering on the greatest and noblest profession that the human
mind has devised. You are following the most elevated and grandest
principles that the wit of mankind is capable of evolving from the
truths of the ages. I am a humble follower of the profession myself,
and am proud to take you by the hand."
 He was not proud enough to make the most of the honor, for he
gave but a perfunctory grasp as I made some appropriate reply.
"I've been in the profession more decades than I like to tell
about," said General Wilson, with a lofty wave of the hand, "but I've
been trying to get out of it for the last five years. Perhaps you can't
appreciate that, Hampden. Here you're trying to get into it, and I
dare say finding it devilish hard; but if you're like me you'll be trying
to get out of it some day and finding it a damned sight harder yet."
"I don't doubt it," said I with pious mendacity.
"Here's the book," said Kendrick. But General Wilson waved him
aside.
"It's wonderful the way business sticks to a man. I've got clients
who just won't be discharged. I thought a year ago that I was going
to see the last of them, but no sooner did I mention it than they
were all up in arms. 'We can't spare you,' they said. 'I must take a
rest,' I told them. 'Take it at our expense,' they said. And the Ohio
Midland gave me a special car and paid the expenses of a trip
around the country, and the Pennsylvania Southern gave me a
twenty-thousand-dollar check to settle for a vacation in Europe, and
the Rockland and Western made me the present of a country place
where I could go and have quiet; and after that what could I do?"
"They must have been irresistible," I admitted.
"Just so; but even then I tried to beg off. I told 'em I had
enough money. It wasn't money I wanted. It was rest--freedom from
worry of business, the grinding care of law cases--that I was after.
But it wouldn't do. The Ohio Midland said, 'Wilson, if you can't be
with us, you mustn't be against us. We know you'll be back again.
Take twenty thousand a year as a retainer and count yourself as one
of us yet. We shouldn't be easy else.' But the Pennsylvania Southern
and the Rockland and Western wouldn't allow even that. They said,
'Wilson, we can't do without you. We'll give you all the help you
want, but we must have you at the head. Name your own figures. It
isn't a question of money. You must be our leading counsel, even if
you don't look in on us more than once a quarter.' I couldn't shake
'em off, so, as I've been saying to Kendrick, I'm like to die in
harness, though I'd give anything to be free and enjoy life as you
young fellows do."
"Just so," said Kendrick cheerily; "but you're way out of the
running about that Mosely matter. Here's the book, and here's the
page, and it was just as I was telling you."
"Ahem!" growled General Wilson, turning redder than ever and
taking the book gingerly. "Oh, this is the thing you were talking
about, is it? Of course, of course, you were quite right--Mosely, of
course. I don't need to read a word of it. I thought you were talking
about that Moberly case. Mosely, of course. Well, I'll send you those
papers as soon as I get to New York. I must be off now. I've got to
see Governor Stanford to-night, and he's one of your early-to-bed
men; so good night."
"You'll call in on me within the week, then?" said Kendrick,
taking him to the door.
"Oh, I shall see you in two days. We must press this business to
an issue. They are waiting for me in New York, and I can't waste
much time in small affairs like this. Well, good night, Kendrick, God
bless you! There ought to be more men like you. Good night." And
the outer door closed behind him.
 Kendrick suppressed a burst of laughter with a muscular effort
that appeared to threaten apoplexy.
"The old humbug!" he gasped. "Hampden, you've seen the most
picturesque liar that ever struck the Golden Gate. He is a regular
Roman candle of romances."
"Is he a fraud? Is it all a case of imagination run wild?"
"No, not altogether, I should say. Half of it seems to be the
truth, though which half to believe I'm blest if I can make out. He
brings good letters."
"From New York?"
"Yes; and Chicago, too. He came out two weeks ago to work up
a land deal. Represents a million dollars in a syndicate, though I
fancy he's not so big a part of it as he makes out. He's full of these
tall stories, though they don't all of them hang together well. It's fun
to listen to him, though. I couldn't help taking him down about that
Mosely affair. He was so cock-sure of knowing everything that I
couldn't resist the temptation."
"You did give his vanity a singe."
"It wasn't the politic thing to do with a million-dollar trade
hanging in the balance, but I reckon he's got enough of his feathers
left to carry him through the deal."
Wharton Kendrick leaned back in his chair, and his face glowed
in amusement.
Then on a sudden he straightened up, all gravity.
"Did you bring any news?" he asked.
"I have a present of an overcoat," I answered. And I gave him
the story of the adventure of the night.
 "That was a rash play of yours," he said gravely. "Don't do it
again. It wasn't necessary."
"Are you certain that Bolton is the only man who has an interest
in setting a watch on you?" I inquired.
"Why, what have you found?" asked Kendrick, a little startled.
"I haven't found anything but an idea--and that," I said,
handing him a bit of paper.
"What's this?" asked Kendrick, putting on his eye-glasses. "Your
wash bill? China lottery? or what?"
"That's the thing that has puzzled me. You see, there's quite a
bit of Chinese writing on it."
"Well, what of it?"
"I got it out of the overcoat that the fellow left in my hands."
"Ah-ha!" said Kendrick. "And you don't see what one of Bolton's
men would be doing with a Chinese letter in his pocket?"
"That was just my idea--in part, at least. The letter was a clue,
anyhow, and I took it to a Chinese firm I have done some law
business for and know pretty well. I showed it to the boss partner.
He talks English like a native, and chatters like a magpie. But when
he saw that slip of paper he shut up like a clam, and all I could get
out of him was 'No sabby.' You know the look of stolid ignorance
they can put on when there's anything they don't want to tell."
"It's the most exasperating thing you can run against."
"Well, when my merchant failed me, I went to another I knew
slightly, then to an interpreter, then to the boss of the Chinese
guides. The same 'No sabby,' and the same stolid look everywhere."
"Why didn't you go to the Chinese interpreter at the City Hall?
He's a white man, and wouldn't be afraid to give away secrets."
 "I tried him, but he said it was nonsense. It's evidently a cipher,
though it's one pretty well known in Chinatown."
"I'll tell you what to do then, Hampden,"--and he took out his
pencil and wrote a few words on a card. "Take this to Big Sam at his
Chinatown office to-morrow. Show him the paper, and he'll give you
the reading. He is under some obligations to me, and he can hardly
refuse."
"Just the thing! As Big Sam comes pretty near being the King of
Chinatown, he will have no one to fear."
"Now about the Council of Nine. What did you get?"
"Well, I saw two members of the Council and a few of their
followers. I tried to pump them, and I dare say I shall become as
good a convert to their propaganda as old Bolton himself. They have
some crack-brained notions of an uprising of the people, but they
don't appear to have anything definite in view at present." And I
gave my employer an account of my visit to the House of Blazes.
He stroked his red whiskers meditatively, and then said:
"Well, that doesn't sound as though they could amount to
much, but as long as P. Bolton is backing them, you'd better keep a
close eye on them."

CHAPTER IV
MACHIAVELLI IN BRONZE

Waverly Place was in the full tide of business. The little brown man
in his blue blouse and clattering shoes was seen in his endless
variety, chattering, bargaining, working, lounging, moving; and the
short street, with its American architecture half orientalized, was gay
with colors and foul with odors.
Patient coolies trotted past, bending between the heavily laden
baskets that swung upon the poles passed over the shoulder. On the
corner an itinerant merchant sat under an improvised awning with a
rude bench before him on which to display his wares, and a big
Chinese basket beside him from which his stock might be renewed
as it was sold. Here was a store with a window display of fine
porcelains, silks, padded coats and gowns covered with grotesque
figures, everything about it denoting neatness and order. Next it was
a barber shop where two Chinese customers were undergoing the
ordeal of a shave.
Beyond the barber shop was a stairway leading to the depths,
from which the odors of opium and a sickening compound of
indescribable smells floated on the morning air. Brown men could be
seen through the smoke and darkness, moving silently as though in
dreams, or listlessly gazing at nothing. Here was a shop of many
goods, with fish and fruits exposed to tempt the palates and purses
of the passer: Chinese nut-fruits, dried and smoked to please the
Chinese taste, candied cocoanut chips that form the most popular of
Chinese confections, with roots and nuts and preserves in variety,
appealing temptingly to the eyes of the Chinese who passed.
Behind, were boxes and bales and cans, big chests and little chests,
bright chests and dingy chests, in endless confusion. The blackened
walls and ceilings gave such an air of age that the shop seemed as
though it might have come out of the ancient Chinese cities as a
relic of the days of Kublai Khan. Shoe factories, clothing factories,
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