Wilbur nodded. "Yes, really! That's why I have to be so careful;
they have their agents everywhere listening, watching, taking notes."
I felt for my pocket-case momentarily fearful that They (whoever They
were) might have taken mine.
"And do you have agents also, listening, noting, taking watches?" I
asked.
Wilbur said he had and went on to explain that so perfect was his
system that a cat could hardly kitten anywhere between the Yildiz
Kiosk and Wilhelmstrasse without his full knowledge and approval. I
was very thrilled, for I had previously imagined all the cloak and
dagger spy business to be an invention of the magazine writer, yet
here was little Wilbur, according to himself, living a life of
continuous yellow drama, more Queuxrious than fiction, rich beyond
dreams of Garavice. (Publisher--"Tut-tut!" Author--"Peccavi!")
I thrilled and thrilled. "Look here," I implored, "if you are going
to pull off a coup at any time, do let me come too!"
Wilbur demurred, the profession wasn't keen on amateurs, he
explained; they were too impetuous, lacked subtlety--still if the
opportunity occurred he might--perhaps---- I wrung his hand, then,
seeing that bells on every landing had been in a state of uproar for
some fifteen minutes and that the attendant was commencing to swarm
the cable after his lift, we dropped back to earth again, returned it
to him and went out to lunch.
"And now tell me something of your methods," said I, as we sat down
to meat.
Wilbur promptly grabbed me by the collar and dragged me after him
under the table.
"What's the matter now?" I gulped.
"Fool!" he hissed. "The waiter is a Bulgarian spy."
"Let's arrest him then," said I.
Wilbur groaned. "Oh, you amateurs, you would stampede everything and
ruin all!"
I apologised meekly and we issued from cover again and resumed our
meal, silently because (according to Wilbur) the peroxide blonde
doing snake-charming tricks with spaghetti at the next table was a
Hungarian agent, and there was a Turk concealed in the potted palms
near by.