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Updated: June 4, 2025
Conne had noticed that rather puzzling phrase and whether the people on this ship had seen that letter. Mr. Conne had seemed to think that one the least important of the lot. Perhaps he had just told the ship's people to look out for spies. And they would do that anyway. The names of uniformed spies in the army cantonments names in black and white that was the important thing the big discovery.
Tom made up his mind that he, in any event, would not detain this fellow on the ground of anything in his appearance, nor any of the others now in sight. He was drawn aside by Mr. Conne, however, and became the object of attention of the other Secret Service men. Tom kept his eyes riveted upon the gangplank. One, two, more, wearing glasses, came in view, were stopped, examined, and passed on.
Conne in the little French cemetery. Yet how much farther away! A prisoner in Germany, with a glowering, sullen Prussian guard at his very elbow! "We used to sing about them when I went to school," he said. "'The Blue Alsatian Mountains." "I'd jolly well like to be on the other side o' them," said Freddie. Tom clutched the little iron button in his pocket.
He had done this because he believed that where there is a great deal of smoke there is apt to be a little fire. He was never ruffled, never disappointed. Tom's acquaintance with Mr. Conne had begun on the transport on which he had worked as a steward's boy, and where his observant qualities and stolid soberness had attracted and amused the detective.
Tom's hand trembled like a leaf and his voice was unsteady as he turned to Mr. Conne, and said. "This one coming down the one that's looking at you he looks like and I notice " "Put your hands down, my man," called Mr. Conne peremptorily, at the same time leaping with the agility of a panther up past the descending throng. "I'll take those." But Tom Slade had spoken first.
He was glad when he was conscious of this fine-looking young American passing on. So it went. There were some whom poor Tom might have been inclined to stop by way of precaution for no better reason than that they had a rough-and-ready look hard fellows. He was glad half glad when Mr. Conne, for reasons of his own, detained one, then another, of these, though they wore no glasses.
"Come on, Tommy," he said, jumping suddenly to his feet. Tom followed. But Mr. Conne did not speak; he was still busy with the tune. Only now he was singing the words. There was something portentous in the careless way he sang them. It took Tom back to the days when it was the battle hymn of the transport: "And when we meet a pretty girl, we whisper in her ear, Oh, Boy! Oh, Joy!
"Well, whenever you see something that you think tells you anything, Tommy, you just follow it up and never mind about folks laughing. I shouldn't wonder if you've made a haul here." "There was one of 'em that interested me specially," ventured Tom; "the one about motors." Mr. Conne glanced over the papers again.
Conne and others, no one was held. And there you are. Rumors of this kind are always in circulation and the Secret Service people run them down as a matter of precaution. But though you can run a rumor down and stab it through and through you cannot kill it. It now appeared that this German agent had sailed from Mexico and would land at Brest with a message to some French statesman.
"Dear Tommy I don't know whether this letter will ever reach you, for, for all I know, you're in Davy Jones's locker. Even my memo of your address got pretty well soaked in the ocean and all I'm dead sure of is that you live in North America somewhere near a bridge." Tom turned the sheet to look at the signature but he knew already that the letter was from his erstwhile friend, Mr. Carleton Conne.
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