He felt a curious indisposition to speak, a queer sort of desire to wait on the chance of hearing more.
"A single kink in my brain," Thomson continued, "a secret weakness, perhaps even a dash of lunacy, and I might be quite reasonably the master-spy of the world.

I was in Berlin six weeks ago, Ambrose.

There wasn't a soul who ever knew it.

I made no report, on purpose." "Perhaps they knew and said nothing," Ambrose suggested softly.
There was a moment's silence.

Thomson seemed to be considering the idea with strange intensity.