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For the third time the wind pushed at the door. For the third time Thorn caught its edge and swung it–six inches, eight, almost enough to slip through….

“Shut thou the window!” crackled a voice suddenly. “Fool! What if some of these documents blew away?”

There was a slam, and the breeze was cut off. Thorn quickly let go of the door, and watched it fall back in place again.

He was cursing his luck when he heard the same commanding voice say: “Kori, see if there be one who listens in the butler’s pantry. It seemed the door opened wider than the wind would warrant.”

There was the scrape of a chair. Then the door was abruptly thrust open and coldly alert eyes in a hostile, wary face, swept over the pantry.

“No one here, Excellency,” said Kori; and he returned to his place at the table.

* * * * *

But with him came another, unseen, to stand against the wall beside a great mahogany buffet, and to listen and watch. Kori had, not unnaturally, held the door open while he glanced around the pantry. And under Kori’s outstretched arm, so close as almost to brush against his uniformed legs, had stolen Thorn.

“Then, gentlemen, it is all arranged?” said the man at the head of the oval table–a spare, elderly individual with bristling gray mustachios and smoldering dark eyes. “The plans leave for Arvania to-morrow night, to arrive in our capital city in ten days. Then day and night manufacture of the Ziegler projectors–and declaration of war. Following that, this great city of Washington, and the even greater cities of New York and Chicago, and all, this fine land from Atlantic to Pacific, shall become an Arvanian possession to exploit as we like!”

There was an audible “Ah!” from the score of men around the table–broken by a voice in the main double doorway of the dining room: “Gentlemen, your pardon, I am late.”

Thorn looked at the speaker. He was a young fellow with an especially elaborate uniform and a face that appeared weak and dissipated in spite of the arrogant Arvanian nose. Then a bark came to Thorn’s ears–and a cold feeling to the pit of Thorn’s stomach. The newcomer had brought a dog with him!

Even as he gazed apprehensively at the dog–a rangy wolfhound–the brute growled deep in its throat and stared at the corner by the buffet where Thorn was instinctively trying to make himself smaller.

The dog growled again, and stalked warily toward the buffet.

“Grego, down,” said his master absently. Then, to the spare man at the head of the table: “I have been next door, talking to the American Secretary of War. A dull fellow. Convinced, is he, that Arvania harbors only kind thoughts for this great stupid nation. They shall be utterly unprepared for our attack–Grego! What ails the brute?”

* * * * *

The wolfhound had evaded several outstretched hands and got to the buffet. There it crouched and cowered, fangs showing in a snarl, eyes reddening wickedly, while the growl rattled louder in its shaggy throat.

“Perhaps the heat has affected him,” said one.

All were looking at the dog now, marveling at its odd behavior. But of all the eyes that observed it a pair of unseen eyes watched with the utmost agitation.

Thorn stared, almost hypnotized, at the creature. A dog! What rotten luck! Men might be fooled by the masking invisibility, but there was no deceiving a dog’s keen nose!

The wolfhound started forward as though to leap, then settled back. Plainly it longed to spring. Equally plainly it was afraid of the being that so impossibly was revealed to its nostrils but not to its eyes. Meanwhile, one tearing sweep of blunt claws or sharp fangs–and a fatal rent would appear in Thorn’s encasing shell!