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and had shared in the piteous unmerited suffering of millions of quiet,
    decent people. He had worked for ten years to rehabilitate Germany and had succeeded, and he
    told himself defiantly that if he had known all the time that he was a British agent, he would have
    worked to that end just the same. The people were all right, they were fine, it was only their
    rulers who were so impossible to live with internationally, first the Kaiser and now this fellow
    Hitler. Someone had said that nations got the governments they deserved; if that were true there
    was something the matter with a race which could throw up and support a succession of fanatical
    megalomaniacs.
    At this point he stopped again and actually blushed, for he suddenly remembered that few
    men had had more to do with promoting the rise of this fellow Hitler than he himself.
    “The trouble is,” he said, “that I’m thinking like an Englishman with half my mind and
    like a German with the other half.”
    He regarded this unpleasant predicament for a moment, and came to a decision.
    “Since this is largely your fault, you interfering chump, it’s up to you to put a spoke in
    their wheel. And I will.”
    After which the British agent went home, reassured his adoptive aunt and went to bed.
    The last thought that occurred to him as his head touched the pillow was a comforting one.
    “But oh, what a marvellous, incredibly heaven-sent position I’m in. And to think Hitler’s
    paying me for this! Money for old rope—” He slept peacefully.
    In the morning it was his first care to interview Van der Lubbe at the earliest possible
    moment, an enthusiastic newly appointed Deputy Chief of Police naturally would, anyway. Van
    der Lubbe turned out to be about as different from Bill Saunders as was possible within the limits
    of humanity. The prisoner was a fat, unhealthy, over-grown oaf, practically subhuman in
    intelligence. Hambledon sighed with relief. On the other hand, it was obvious at sight that this
    moron could never have thought out a scheme for firing the Reichstag; he did not look capable of
    lighting a domestic gas-ring without burning his fingers. Then the question arose, if Van der
    Lubbe wasn’t responsible, who was?
    At the time of the fire, the police had thrown a cordon round the Reichstag and its
    environs, and arrested everyone who might conceivably either have had a hand in the crime or
    have seen something significant which they could be induced to tell. These unlucky ones
    numbered some hundreds, and Lehmann spent many days in his new office examining suspects.
    Among their number was a frowsty old man who sold newspapers on the streets; he was well
    known to the police in that capacity and would not have been the object of the slightest suspicion
    had it not been for his state of almost uncontrollable nervousness. Why should he be so
    frightened if he had a perfectly clear conscience?
    The old man stood before the desk at which Lehmann was sitting and replied unwillingly
    to the questions which were fired at him. An S.S. man in the famous brown uniform, who had
    brought in the prisoner, now-stood by the door, and the news-vendor shot agitated glances over
    his shoulder at the man from time to time.
    “What is your name?” asked Lehmann.
    “Johann.”
    “Surname?”
    The man hesitated, and said, “Schaffer.”
    “Johann Schaffer. Address?”
    “Haven’t got one.”
    “Where do you sleep?”
    “Anywhere.”
    “No fixed abode. What were you doing on the night of the Reichstag fire?”
    “Nothing. Only walking along selling papers.”
    “Walking along where?”
    “Konigsgratzer Strasse.”
    “At what time?”
    “Just before ten.”
    “Very late, wasn’t it, to be selling papers? Surely the last edition is much earlier than
    that?”
    “I had some left,” said Johann Schaffer, and looked for the first time straight at the
    questioner. What he saw in Lehmann’s face did not appear to reassure him. He looked first
    puzzled, then