The door opened cautiously, and a voice gruffly bade him begone.
"I have a message for Mr.Thatcher; it's very important--" "Mr.Thatcher not at home; nobody home," growled a voice in broken English.

"You get right off dis place, quick!" Dan thrust his walking-stick into the small opening to guard against having the door slammed in his face and began a parley that continued for several minutes with rising heat on the part of the caretaker.

The man's rage at being unable to close the door was not without its humor; but Dan now saw, beyond the German's broad shoulders, a figure lurking within, faintly discernible from the electric lamps in a bronze sconce on the wall.
The reporter and the caretaker were making no progress in their colloquy and Dan was trying to catch a glimpse of the other man, who leaned against the wall quite indifferent to the struggle for the door.

Dan supposed him to be another servant, and he had abandoned hope of learning anything of Thatcher, when a drawling voice called out:-- "Open the door, Hans, and let the gentleman in: I'll attend to him." Dan found himself face to face with a young man of about his own age, a slender young fellow, clad in blue overalls and flannel shirt.

He lounged forward with an air of languor that puzzled the reporter.