Therefore, having placed an escort round the prisoners, the officer marched them away to the adjacent road, and presently sent them along it. Yet Bill and his friends had not quite done with incident. Ere they gained a German prison that evening, they were herded in a camp near by; and, just as the light was falling, observed an aeroplane making ready to take the air and join in the enemy offensive. Yet was it merely for ordinary purposes that this machine made ready to depart? Bill of a sudden grabbed Larry's arm as they stood close to the wire entanglements which surrounded them.

"It's—" he gasped, "it's Heinrich Hilker!" and in his excitement he clutched at the barbed railing.

Larry stared and then started. A second later he clasped his thin fingers firmly round Bill's arm and pulled him back.

"Get hold of him on the other side, Jim," he said hoarsely. "Gee! If that isn't that traitor! If that isn't the man who shot Bill's father way back in the saloon in the Utah mine camp! If that ain't the agent that fired the bomb aboard the ship that brought us to Europe! Come back, Bill; if you shout you'll give yourself away, and the man, once he recognizes you, wouldn't stop at anything. Gosh! what a meeting! And what's he after?"

"After! After!" said Jim, beginning now to fully appreciate the position. "He's getting aboard that aeroplane as a passenger. He's dressed as a American. You bet he's—he's going off to be dropped in the American lines, where he'll act the traitor again, where he'll be a spy."

"Stop him!" Bill tried to shout, but Larry clapped a hand over his mouth and just stopped him; and there, as they stood, helpless to intervene, they watched the aeroplane take flight, watched the figure of the man they knew to be a despicable spy, dressed in American uniform, steal off into the heavens. Without doubt the man was gone to carry on his nefarious work amongst their unsuspecting comrades.

CHAPTER XVI Heinrich Hilker, Master Spy

Time sweeps along, and this gigantic contest which has engulfed the world spreads and grows constantly greater. The times in which we live are so momentous, and the incidents so numerous and so close at hand, that one is apt to lose grip of the general situation and to forget, in the vastness of our own responsibilities, that others than ourselves are concerned. Yet it were wise to dissever ourselves for a moment from our own particular and personal interest in this world-contest, and, standing aside as it were in some quiet niche—if one is actually discoverable when the world is aflame—to look out and survey the whole area of operations from that niche or point of vantage. We should see Britain and France, and now America too, locked closely with the enemy along the line of trenches from Nieuport to far-off Belfort on the Franco-Swiss frontier. In Italy we should catch a glimpse of King Victor's hosts, driven back from the Isonzo, in October, 1917, mourning the loss of a fertile province, and awaiting the onslaught of the Austrian hosts along the Trentino front and throughout the whole length of the Piave River.

In Salonika and adjacent parts there would appear British and French and Serbians and Greeks and Italians facing the Bulgarian cohorts. In Palestine, General Allenby's troops beyond Jericho and Jerusalem, in touch with the King of the Hadjiz, steadily driving the Turk before them. Farther east, in Mesopotamia, other British and British-Indian troops, sweeping steadily upward along the courses of the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers, leaving the Persian frontier behind them, with their right flank thrown out in the direction of the Caucasus. Behind these two last groups of British troops, in Egypt itself, would be seen teeming masses of troops ready to reinforce the Palestine and the Mesopotamian fronts, and prepared at any moment to subjugate the tribes in the western desert should they again venture to rise. But the Senussi have learnt their lesson. Elsewhere the Arabs, stirred up by German agents, and fed and paid by them, have likewise learnt that the British arm is a strong and a long one, and they too are glad to be at peace with us.

Go east across the ocean to East Africa, where German columns still trek through swampy and forest country, and where British troops, with Indians amongst them, pursue them relentlessly, having already captured practically the whole of this, the last of the German colonies. Then turn to Russia. Was there ever such a wretched country? Revolution having first deposed the Tsar, the Revolutionists have turned upon one another. Armies have disappeared, the German has invaded the Muscovite provinces without difficulty; for while the hand of brother was raised against the hand of brother there were none to oppose the invader. We have dealt already in some detail with this lamentable condition of affairs, and have shown how it reacted on the Western Front, but we have not so far dealt with its meaning in other directions.

Siberia borders China and runs down to the sea which washes the Japanese islands. Not only are Russian revolutionists swarming in these parts, but the many hundreds of thousands of Austrian prisoners and the many thousands of Germans captured by Russia in the early days of the war, when the Russian armies were triumphant, are at large, seizing arms, electing leaders, and at this very period threatening the security of the Chinese provinces across the Siberian border, and the interests of Japan in Manchuria and elsewhere.

Thus as, ensconced in our niche, we look out and survey this world-wide scene, another aspect of affairs is presented to us. China, like many of the South American provinces, indeed as in the case of nearly every nationality throughout the world other than the Central Empires of Europe, has declared war against the Kaiser and his allies, or has severed diplomatic relations with them, while it needs not to be added that the Japanese have long since joined Britain and her allies. But till this stage of the war neither China nor Japan has taken active military steps against the enemy, though the navy of Japan has already lent much assistance. The time has now arrived, however, when China must seriously consider the protection of her Siberian frontier, when Japan must likewise protect her interests on the coast washed by the Sea of Japan.

At this stage of the conflict one is unable to prophesy what will happen in this particular direction; yet, bearing in mind the course of this gigantic war, its constant spread, it seems only reasonable to expect that presently China and Japan will be brought actively into the fighting.

One last point in our survey. The Caucasus, captured in such magnificent manner by the Russians, has now been abandoned by the Revolutionists, and the Armenian people, released from the torture of Turkish rule, have again been thrown into the hands of that remorseless people. Thus, while the outbreak of revolution has dismembered Russia, and brought infinite misery upon the people, it has automatically, as it were, brought even greater misery upon the Armenians. Yet it has not found them irresolute or without strength to protect their homes. As we write, they are fighting the Turk, and may success follow their efforts!

Then let us turn to the active centre of the world-wide contest—to France. We have already set down the outline of the German offensive which commenced on 21st March, 1918, when Bill and Larry and Jim and Nobby and their comrades were engulfed. We can conveniently, then, follow this offensive to its end, and, advancing the story a stage or two, describe events that followed.

The Fifth British Army, opposed to the bulk of the German host, fell back by force of circumstances, fighting a brilliant rear-guard action, while the Third Army, just to the north of it, swung its right flank farther to the west to keep in touch with the left of the Fifth Army. At the same time French troops were rushed forward to reinforce the right flank of the Fifth Army, while American battalions were brigaded with British and French troops, so that, as the Fifth Army retired, its resistance was supported by others, and reinforcements accumulated.

The German drive was presently stopped definitely before Albert. In effect that drive had carried the enemy across the conquered battle-fields of the Somme, and the line now established was that held for so many weary months through the years 1914, 1915, and 1916.

Then followed a short lull and another German offensive in the neighbourhood of Armentières, which carried the enemy over Messines Hill, across the flats of French Flanders, beyond Bailleul, in a big bow which encompassed Kemmel Hill, the village of Locre, and many other villages from a point south of Ypres down to Festubert to the north-east of Bethune. Once more British and French and American reserves checked the rush, and the Allied line once again held up the enemy advance.

Another pause, more frantic efforts on the part of the enemy, whose policy it was to smash the French and British before American troops could arrive in sufficient numbers, and a third offensive was launched towards the Aisne River, which swept the defenders back right to the Marne and carved out another huge section of French country, till this third wave of advance reached the Marne River at a point thirty-four miles from Paris, encircling Reims to the east, and running from the Marne past Villers Cotterets—scene of British gallantry in 1914—to Noyon.

The position is one to consider for a moment. How had this trio of retreats affected the Allies, and what success had it brought to the Germans? In the case of the former it had caused losses, it had secured country, it had devastated fertile areas, and it had rendered homeless thousands of hapless French people. Moreover, it had brought the Germans within easier striking distance of Paris, on which at least three of their long-range guns had for some weeks now been casting shells. But it had not broken Britain and her allies. Those losses had already been made good, and now, instead of some three or four hundred thousand Americans standing shoulder to shoulder with Britain and France and Italy and Portugal and Belgium, there were a million Americans, with more swarming on ships to cross the Atlantic and come to our assistance.

What then of the Germans? What was in the first place the ultimate aim and object of that first offensive, which, successful enough, we admit, had yet caused them stupendous losses? What was the net result of these three successful attempts, all accompanied by losses, which, if published broadcast and fully known, might well stagger the people of Germany? Ground had been won, prisoners had been taken, but the effort was a failure—a ghastly failure—because its main object had been to smash and drive a wedge in between the British forces to the north and the French troops farther south—a position which would have been pressed to the fullest and which would have enabled the Kaiser to have thrown the whole of his forces upon the British and so overwhelm them.

That had not eventuated; that was the main object of the German High Command, and its failure spelt failure in all directions. Those three offensives had taken time—valuable days had slipped by, valuable weeks had gone, and during those weeks, running into some three months, America, stimulated by the danger, had made good the gaps in the fighting-line of the Allies, and had sent her troops to France in unprecedented manner.

What then of the future? There stood now in France a solid wall of British and French and American troops, with Italians, Portuguese, and Belgians, a wall growing stouter every day as American troops arrived. On the other side of the line there stood a German host, staggered in spite of itself by its losses, shaken by the stupendous task still before it, doubtful of the future, hesitating as to the course it should pursue.

As to the other theatres of war: in Italy another blow was given to the German Alliance, for the Austrians, having staked their all on an offensive, were hopelessly defeated, and Italy was advancing her line across the Piave. Thus July arrived, and with it the crisis of this world-wide conflict.

What of Bill and his friends? What, too, of Heinrich Hilker, the German spy whom they had seen whisked off in an aeroplane, obviously with the intention of landing behind the Allied line, there to mingle with the American soldiers?

"It's—it's——" spluttered Bill, as the machine took the air and went off. "I—we——"

"You shut up," Larry commanded, still gripping him by the arm and beginning to lead him away. "Sakes! D'you want every one of the Germans outside to hear you—to see that something's happened? Come over here! Stuff that into your mouth! Smoke, man! Now, Jim, sit down; we'll have a talk. Nobby, you come across here. Of course you don't understand. Well, sit down; now listen!"

"See here!" said Jim, tapping the huge Nobby on the knee as he sat in front of him, for Larry was now engaged in talking sternly to Bill. "This here is a real drama: our Bill—our young Bill, him as we've been along with these weeks now—was a chum of ours out west in America. There was Germans there, Nobby; you know as I'm speakin' of times when America wasn't at war with Germany. Them Germans was up to all sorts of stunts—dirty stunts; you get me?"

Nobby nodded. He opened a capacious mouth and popped in the tip of a tiny cigarette, looking almost as though he would swallow it.

"Yep!" he said, unconsciously mimicking Larry.

"Well now, there was a bar down there, and Bill's father was the man in charge of it. One of these here German skunks shot him because he was talkin' about the Kaiser. That man was the man dressed in American uniform that's just gone off aloft in that aeroplane. Say, Nobby, what d'you think a German skunk like that wants to get dressing up in American togs for? What d'you think?"

"Think!" Nobby's brow was wreathed with furrows, his eyes sank a trifle deeper into his head, and for the first time since they had known him he actually scowled. "Think! As if I wanted to think!" he said. "Ain't I been out 'ere these months and months? Ain't we had spies before?—nice, dear old gentlemen, who you'd think were real till you'd stripped them of their beards and some of their clothes. Haven't I known German officers dressed up as old Flemish women? Ain't they tried every game on?—even to dressin' in British uniforms!—and you get askin' me the sort o' question you'd put to a child! 'Ere, Jim, I've took a likin' to you, but if you fling things like that at me, you and I'll part—savvy?"

He blew out a puff of smoke directly into Jim's face, perhaps not very politely; but then on active service the refinements of civilization are not always observable—men think deeply and sometimes forget the niceties they practised at home.

"D'you get me?" asked Nobby, blowing out another cloud of smoke, and becoming quite American in his drawl, "or d'you really take me for a child?—me as 'as been on active service almost since the war begun. So young Bill's father was killed by that dirty scoundrel, eh?" he asked, "and that explains his excitement just now. Bill, boy," he said, holding out a hand and gripping Bill's arm with his huge fingers, "don't you take on, you'll get even with that chap one of these days, and I'll help you. Pull yerself together! Now let's talk! Of course you mean to escape out of this place—so do we. Of course, you want to get back to your folks as quick as possible, so as to give 'em a warning—well, so do we. You ain't the only one as thinks of such things or worries over the Americans. Well then, we're agreed. Then let's put our heads together and talk it over and make plans and so on."

Nobby sat down, blew his cheeks out, grimaced at Bill, winked at Larry, and jerked his head as much as if to invite Jim to be seated near him.

"Stand up, you English swine!" a German non-commissioned officer shouted at them, using the English language.

"English swine!" Nobby grunted, while his cheeks flushed. "Well, I don't know; suppose you've got to hold yerself in these days, because it don't do to quarrel with the Germans when you're a prisoner—but——" His big fist doubled, while with the other hand he dashed the sweat from his forehead.

As for Bill, he appeared to take no offence at the coarse command. Automatically, as it were, he stood up. All his thoughts were bent upon the scoundrel, Heinrich Hilker, whom he had seen leaving the place on that aeroplane, undoubtedly bound for the American lines. "American lines!" They were the Allied lines; for was not America one of the stanchest of the Allies? and had not he, Bill himself, the closest relationship and friendship for America? Whatever did Heinrich Hilker's presence bode for those friends of his? What danger did it mean? In any case, his presence as a spy could hardly signify anything else but trouble for the Allies, trouble which might lead to disaster.

"It must be stopped. We must get away," he said.

"Sure!" grunted Larry, "but you hold yer jaw, young Bill!" he added, sotto voce. "This German chap speaks English, don't you forget it. Perhaps he's been a waiter—most of 'em seem to have been that—and has made a small fortune out of your people or out of mine. That's why he hates us, perhaps; for see how he scowls at us. But escape, boy? Sure we will—eh, Jim?"

Jim merely glanced at them, but as he did so his eyes flashed an answer which there was no mistaking, and he nodded.

"March! No talking! I'll bayonet the man who speaks! Fall in, you dogs! Listen to me. We've broken the British line; we've separated the French and the English. We're marching to Paris. We shall soon have conquered both England and France, and then America shall feel the weight of our blows. Ha, America!"

The German swung round upon the diminutive Larry, and, stepping a pace nearer, stood over him as if he would trample upon him and crush him. Whereat Larry, no doubt unconsciously, felt for his cigar end, and, discovering it had gone, merely stood staring up at this giant, this bully.

"Say, mister!" he said in gentle tones, "you ain't got no call to try and skeere me—I ain't the American army. You won't find the American army and our boys so jolly small as I am. You wait! Marching on Paris, eh? Waal, you ain't there yet, I'll bet. As for whoppin' the British——waal! My! I've seen something of them fellows, and they'll take some whopping! And then you'll beat the Americans. Oh ho, you will! Waal, that too'll want a bit o' doin'."

The man scowled down at him, and, gripping his rifle, lifted it up above his head as if he would dash the butt against Larry's face. Then he thought better of the matter, lowered it, and, finally turning on his heel, marched away. Who knows? The very mildness of Larry's appearance, the gentleness of his voice, may have taken the man by surprise. Or was it that in that gentle and diminutive exterior he had seen something, perceived something hidden before, had grasped some idea, as it were, of the indomitable courage of this gallant American? Yes, it must have been that. Those who looked into Larry's eyes under similar circumstances saw a glimmer there of warning. This was the little man who in the mines was feared by evil-doers. Even as a prisoner he was not to be derided. In point of fact, that swinging butt had caused him to brace every muscle and every sinew. Unknown to the German, unsuspected by his comrades, he was on the point of springing at the man's throat, when luckily the bully turned abruptly.

"I'll know him next time," said Larry in the same gentle tone. "Things then may be a bit more even. Suppose now he's got a gun, and I too. Waal, boys, guess I'll do more than stand still and talk to him."

Nobby's big broad fingers were stretched out, and gripped the frail shoulders of the American. Nobby, broad-shouldered, powerfully built, and perhaps a little obtuse and dull of understanding, could yet realize what had passed in those last few moments. Long since this he had developed an enormous admiration for Larry and his other American comrades, for Bill, too, let us say, and none the less for his British comrades. Larry was such a queer fellow; so calm, so deliberate, so full of pluck and spirit, and yet so fragile in appearance.

"Say, Larry," he gulped, mimicking the American's drawl, "you do get me. Blest if I can understand a chap like you. Now if I was to take you by this same shoulder, I could shake yer as a dog does a rat, and blest if I don't think you look as though you'd fall to pieces. But when you gets a squint at me, I knows that, like the rat, you'd turn and get yer teeth into me, and then it'ud be a fight to the death. Blimey! I'm glad I ain't that German, because some day you'll meet him, that's certain, and then—— Well, as I said, I'm real sorry for 'im!"

"March!" They were hurried out of the barbed-wire entanglements, and presently joined another column of unfortunate prisoners. A few hours later they reached the railway station at Péronne, where they were driven into cattle trucks preparatory to the journey into Germany. That night the train pulled out of the station and lay in a siding. Far off, very far off indeed, they heard the sounds of strife. British guns, American guns, French guns, in the far distance, defending the Allied line against the German rush. Then they lost these sounds as the train which carried them steamed out on its journey.

When would they hear those reassuring sounds again? What chance had Bill and his friends of ever returning to their comrades? And, worst thought of all, what opportunity would they have to circumvent the plans of Heinrich Hilker, the villain who by this time, in all probability, had landed behind the American lines, and was no doubt already fraternizing with those whose destruction he plotted?

CHAPTER XVII An American Encampment

A small crescent of the moon illuminated the country-side, thrusting pale beams through the mist which rose from the ground, sodden after days of rain, lighting up the roofs of houses, the white walls of barns, camouflaged tents and huts, and gleaming now and again from the wings of an aeroplane soaring over the line. A man in that aeroplane, masked and clad in leather garments, bent forward, tapped his pilot on the shoulder, and spoke to him through the telephone which connected their head-pieces.

"A little lower, Fritz; now to the right. Wait! I think I see the church tower which was to be our mark. No, not that one; farther on. Listen!—there are guns! I saw the flashes down below, so that we are still in the area of operations."

The pilot grunted. He was a huge, broad-shouldered beast-like individual. He turned his head impatiently and growled something into the telephone, though what it was Heinrich Hilker, seated behind him, did not understand. How could he? How could he realize that these gruff words shouted at him contained all the venomous contempt of which the pilot was capable, and yet a contempt which he dared not show too openly.

"This—this Hilker—a spy—yes!" the pilot was saying to himself. "Not that I blame him for that, for it's a dangerous game to play, and calls for courage. But is the fellow honest with anyone at all?—with us, for instance? I doubt it. Yet, what is one to think? For his record for America is splendid, and now he goes to join the Americans again. Bah! it's a dangerous game to play; that is, dangerous for us should he elect to tell the Americans all he knows about us."

So Heinrich Hilker, intriguer, ruffian, rascal that he was, had succeeded in arousing the suspicions of one at least of his compatriots, while certainly he had aroused in the minds of Bill and Larry and his chums something far beyond suspicion. Not that Heinrich Hilker himself cared what others thought. To him the work that he was engaged on was the height of enjoyment. America, for some unexplained reason, seemed to have aroused all his enmity. Well, Americans were down below there. He would soon be amongst them. A friend—yes, a friend for the moment. And what would his coming portend? Disaster!

He rubbed his gloved hands together and chuckled into the telephone.

"Wait until I get there," he told himself. "Wait till I learn all about them! Wait until my signals bring shells smashing into their batteries! Then they'll know. Then they'll learn what it means to hunt Heinrich Hilker from their country."

"Stop!" he shouted. "That's the church tower! Now steer her to the right, then drop! The ground is clear behind, and you can make a landing."

The broad back in front wriggled and writhed, the strong shoulders heaved upwards. If Heinrich Hilker had been a man of discernment, and less engaged with his own affairs and his own importance, he would have appreciated the fact that that heave, that wriggle, denoted something not altogether pleasant. Indeed it denoted the anger of the pilot, his hatred for his passenger, his indignation with this man who ventured to give him—an experienced pilot—instructions. He growled a reply into the telephone, and, sighting the spot to which Heinrich had referred, sent his machine down in a spinning nose-dive.

"I'll scare the life out of him," he thought. "Let him believe he's about to be dashed to pieces—there!" and he threw his hands up from the "joy-stick".

But Heinrich never even blinked his eyelids. His thoughts were upon the task he had before him, and his eyes were riveted upon the ground. All thought of his own personal safety had left him for the moment, while that heaving of the shoulders in front of him, like the reply the pilot had growled at him, escaped his attention.

"Down!" he shouted. "Faster!"

"Faster! The man's crazy," thought the pilot, pulling his machine out of its spinning nose-dive with some little difficulty. "What if we find a crowd of the enemy there! But the landing-place looks broad enough. Get ready to move out! I shall drop here like a stone, give you half a minute to dismount, and be off again instantly."

Heinrich's answer was to begin to unbuckle the belt which strapped him securely to his seat, and to make sure that no part of his clothing was entangled in the framework. He bent easily over the side of the fuselage, which was now lying horizontally, and then half rose to his feet as the machine, already within a thousand feet of the ground, shot down at a steep angle. Presently the pilot flattened it, dropped it again, bumped his wheels, and, having already switched off his engine, finally brought the aeroplane to a standstill.

"Au revoir!" shouted Heinrich, for by then the pilot—a skilful fellow—had got his engine going again.

"To the devil with you!" muttered the latter. He waved an arm, turned one glance upon the figure now standing a few feet from his machine, opened his throttle, and went bounding off and so into the air and away from the spot where he had landed.

As for Heinrich, he watched the departure for two minutes, and then, turning, walked towards the church-tower which had been his landmark. It was perhaps a minute later when a man accosted him.

"Say!" someone cried; "halt! Who goes there? Advance and give the countersign!"

"Hundred and forty-first Regiment!" came the prompt answer. "Name—John Miller—American Expeditionary Force, same as yourself, sonny. Say, did you see that aeroplane just now?" he asked, approaching the sentry.

"Yep. Must 'a been one of ours. Thought it landed on the flats yonder, but wasn't certain, and couldn't get a view from just here."

"Good-night, sonny!"

The two men stood opposite one another for just a brief moment, and then Heinrich passed on towards the American encampment which this sentry guarded.

"John Miller—eh? Oh! Just John Miller! Now I'd have sworn——" the sentry told himself as he paced to and fro—a lithe, tall, sinewy young fellow, a magnificent example of American manhood. "Gee, now! Where have I met that chap before?—and not liked him either. John Miller—why, bless us! Now, where?"

He swung his rifle to his shoulder and marched to and fro far more rapidly than the regulations warranted. His beat took him as far as the church tower in one direction, and back to the post to which barbed wire was attached, and which marked the limit of the encampment occupied by his own particular comrades. Something was agitating this fine young fellow—some fleeting memory the essence of which just escaped him. In his mind's eye he could picture the figure—the somewhat sloping shoulders, the rather bullet head, and the particular cast of countenance of this John Miller, who had just answered his challenge, had given him the correct counter-sign without faltering.

That he was not American born he felt quite sure; that he was of alien extraction he was ready to venture upon a wager; but that did not say that John Miller was not an altogether reputable person. For there are thousands of alien-born Americans who are now in the American ranks fighting against the nation which threatens the liberties of all the free peoples of the world. The man's eye absorbed the thoughts of the sentry.

"Same sort of gleaming optic," he said. "Now where? This gets me! I——"

He suddenly halted and grounded his rifle, the butt-end striking the hard earth with a clang. One hand grabbed the muzzle just below the bayonet, while the other went to his waist, where the thumb stuck within his belt. Then a low deep-drawn whistle escaped from between the pursed-up lips of the sentry. He shouldered his weapon, and, turning abruptly, walked with even more decided step toward the guard-tent.

"Sergeant of the Guard!" he called.

Presently a man, taller than himself, with tin hat tilted somewhat over his eyes, turned out of the tent and approached him.

"Aye?" he asked, in brusque yet kindly tones; "what now, Dan? Somethin' special?"

Dan! Could Larry and Jim have caught but a glimpse of this fine young fellow, what shouts of joy they would have given. How they would have rushed towards him and gripped his hands. For this Dan was none other than their chum away in Salt Lake City at the copper-mine—the same Dan whom Heinrich Hilker had shot down in that famous encounter. And here was a coincidence! Dan, recovered of a desperate wound—thanks to his magnificent physique and wonderful health—had volunteered, and had followed his chums across the water. Here he was—tin-hatted, arrayed in khaki, drilled, and thoroughly well informed in matters pertaining to modern warfare—on sentry duty, and for a moment face to face with the man who had done his best to kill him. More than that, that man was a spy—none other than Heinrich Hilker—and Dan, with the swiftness for which he was notorious, had recognized him.

True, the fleeting glance he had obtained of this ruffian as he peered at his face under the thin beams cast by the moon-crescent had given him hardly even an inkling, but it had set some odd corner of his brain at work, had stirred, as it were, some cell in his cerebral matter, which, since the affair in the mine, had until that moment been lying dormant. Dan had caught a glimpse of Heinrich Hilker in a similar way when the light had been thrown full upon him in the heart of the copper-mine, just before Dan himself had been put out of action by the bullet he had fired, and now this second fleeting glance recalled that old memory, and that memory had developed to the point where he recognized that he, Dan, had information of the utmost importance.

"Well, Dan," repeated the Sergeant of the Guard. "Report, eh?"

"Serious, Sergeant. I'd like to go before the officer right now. Will you take me?"

"Jim, there," the Sergeant called, "I want a relief at once. Turn out, Jim!" And straightway he relieved his sentry. "Now, Dan, boy, we'll go right off. Say, Lootenant, this here's Private Dan Holman, same as you know, and he's asked to come along with a report that he considers important."

The officer, who had been hastily summoned—a stoutly-built, thick-set fellow—took a long look at Dan, and answered him in business-like fashion.

"Report, eh? Sentry duty—what? Come over here! Now," he said.

"Confidential, Lootenant," Dan told him. "No offence to the Sergeant, but my report's a matter of no end of importance, not only to you and to me, sir, but to all us Americans. It's a report that a Commander-in-Chief should have right now—the sooner the better."

Those who knew Dan knew him to be a strong and steady and promising young soldier, not the sort of fellow upon whom the moonbeams could have played a trick, or a man given to imagining something out of the ordinary. The officer merely took another glance at him, ordered the Sergeant back to the guard-tent, and, turning upon his heel, led the way to Divisional Head-quarters. There it was that Dan told his story.

"And you recognized this man as a German—a German agent who shot the barman at a saloon near Salt Lake City, and afterwards nearly put you out of action for good? You're sure?"

"Certain, sir!" Dan told him promptly. "I've only had, as you might say, a peep at the fellow once, way over by Salt Lake City, and the second time just now, but I'm as sure as sure! You've a spy landed right here and right now—a spy dressed in American uniform, who speaks English same as you and me—a spy who'd do his utmost to damage the American army."

That the information might well prove of the utmost importance was clear to the Divisional Commander, just as it was to the Intelligence side of his Staff. There followed a discussion, and presently sharp orders were issued.

"We'll muster every man at dawn," the Commander ordered—"every man, whether he's serving with his battalion, or as a cook, or what-not; fatigue parties, men in camp, men in billets—every single man of this division—and we'll call the roll-call from end to end of the camp. If that John Miller's here, we'll get him. 141st Regiment, eh?" he said. "Now how did the fellow get his information? He must have had news from this quarter, for see how he got into the camp! This private will be attached to the Intelligence for the time being. We shall have to hunt for this man, for he's likely to prove, while at large, a real danger."

He was likely to prove, in addition, a spy so cunning as to be not so easily captured as the Commander imagined. Did they think, indeed, that Heinrich Hilker, a man who had spied in many countries and under varying conditions, would be so easily trapped? Why, even then, as the order was issued for an early morning muster of the whole division, Heinrich heard the news. At the moment he stood at the entrance to a tent, for all the world as though he had just turned out to see whether daylight were coming. He stretched his arms and yawned, and, seeing a sergeant about to pass, hailed him.

"What time o' day?" he asked.

"4.30."

"Be daylight in another hour," he suggested, smothering another yawn.

"Yep, an hour or a little more. There's a muster a half an hour after that—six o'clock sharp—every man-Jack of the division."

"A muster! A blame nuisance! What for?"

"Dunno! It's a blame nuisance, as you say—some! But guess they've got a reason!"

Heinrich guessed also. He stood outside the tent stretching his arms until the man was out of sight, and then, looking about him for a few moments, he sped off into the darkness and presently disappeared from sight. Yet, when the muster was held in the misty early hours of the morning, Heinrich, though absent, though not to be found among the American ranks, was yet within sight of the parade. In a little corner of a church tower, hidden beneath the tiles of the broken roof, lying full length on a truss of straw, placed there for him by a peasant who was his accomplice, he watched the whole scene and chuckled.

"My brave Alphonse!" he said, as the parade he witnessed was presently dismissed. "You see that! These American swine, eh? And you chuckle! Ha! where are you, Alphonse? You are a sly, slippery, cunning fellow."

But a few minutes before, the figure of a man had actually been beside Heinrich, staring out between the cracks in this tower, and pointing and gibing, and then, as the German turned, the man was no longer there. Now, however, as he called, there was just the merest trace of a sound on the rungs of the ladder which led to this loft in the tower of the church, and half a minute later a long, hooked-nosed visage was thrust over the edge of the floorway, up through the square opening—a leering, bleary, pock-marked face, crowned by a head of hair which was thin at the temples and decidedly so on the crown—the face of an inebriate, followed by the figure of a man who had once upon a time been powerful. Now, creeping and cunning and noiseless in his movements, it was clear from his attenuated frame, from his big bones and joints, his sunken flanks, his thin calves, and his claw-like hands, that the man was no longer what he had been. And what was his nationality? French? Bah! The man spoke like a peasant of those parts, and yet trace his history back.

Alphonse, as he was generally known, had dropped upon this part of the country as if literally from the skies. He had simply arrived there late one evening, when only a young man, and, having put up at a local cabaret for some few days, he presently blossomed forth as the owner of the local forge. Pierre, the man who had controlled the forge for many and many a year, had died, conveniently it seemed, and here was Alphonse installed in his stead—Alphonse, who charged such ridiculously low prices, who did his work so well, who was such a "hail fellow" with all the French farmers and their men—Alphonse, who seemed to have so much money jingling in his pockets, who was so curious about other people's affairs, who travelled now and again to the neighbouring cities, who, it was whispered, had more than once been met by strangers—yet, Alphonse, the shoesmith, who did good work and charged the most reasonable prices.

Years went by, and Alphonse grew older. Perhaps it was the lonely life; perhaps it was some secret grief which preyed upon him. In any case, Alphonse's visits to neighbouring cabarets became more frequent and lasted longer; and here was the result. A fine figure of a man at one time, he was now attenuated, horrid to look upon, while his face was that of a leering, cunning, crafty, and unscrupulous drunkard. Let us whisper more—in his cups, Alphonse spoke German with perfection.

"See!" he said hoarsely, pushing forward a gnarled finger and pointing out through the cracks between the tiles from which Heinrich the spy was peering. "They thought to take you so easily, these Americans! But it is you—no, it is I—who have outwitted them—outwitted them, you hear? and the wretch broke into a dry, echoing chuckle which reverberated from the tiles around him, and from the walls of the old tower, till Heinrich was startled.

"Peace, you fool!" he growled, turning upon him. Whereat the big, bony fingers of the other man assumed the shape of claws, his brow knitted, and for a moment he scowled at his companion; then he pointed again.

"Outwitted—yes!" he whispered hoarsely, as though fearful that the Americans down below, all unconscious of their presence, might overhear them. "And what a prize! How we shall still further upset their plans! In a little while—in a week or two perhaps—in less for all we know—the signal will come to us; we shall know that our comrades yonder are about to strike once more, and it may be for the last time, for the Fatherland. Then——"

The wretch broke again into that dry, creaking, rusty cackle which grated upon Heinrich's nerves so much.

"Then! What?" he asked abruptly, angrily.

"Then! I'll tell you," the man responded. "We—you and I—will see to it that it is here that our comrades break through. That it is we who discover ourselves to the great German general and claim our reward. Reward! Money, money, money in plenty; far more than the German Government has sent me in these past years that I have lived in this vile country amongst these vile peasants, and have done the bidding of the Fatherland—money with which to live. Ah, that will be worth while!"

Heinrich positively shivered. The man's face acted like a douche of cold water upon him, and then those huge, bony fingers positively gave him the creeps.

"Worth while!" he said rapidly. "Money for what? More visits to the cabaret? Well, we will see; but we must work, and work hard, together."

"Ah! Yes, work hard, as I have worked for years, and you too, no doubt, my comrade, work for the Kaiser and the Fatherland."

Down below American battalions were dismissing—those fine Americans who had come four thousand miles across the Atlantic to meet the barbarians of the twentieth century—were strolling off to their bivouacs, their cook-houses, their rest-huts, and so on. Not one, perhaps, suspected that so near at hand lay the spy for whom their general was searching; not one, as he cast an eye upward and caught a glimpse of that picturesque yet half-shattered tower, realized that there lay the man whom they were seeking; and he, this Heinrich and the odious creature by his side, boded no good to these gallant men who had come to stand beside the British and their allies.

CHAPTER XVIII In Search of Liberty

"Getting nearer Germany," said Jim laconically.

Larry kicked the sides of the cattle-truck in which they were incarcerated, pulled that tin hat of his down over his brow—his unconscious yet characteristic habit—scowled and then grinned.

Nobby got angry; he doubled his fist, projected his head until his face was within a few inches of Larry, and growled something at him.

"You're always laughin'—you, Larry," he said. "If we gits into a tight hole, 'stead o' bein' serious-like all the time, you gits a-laughin'. Now, look 'ere!"

Bill took the huge fellow by the shoulder and pulled him back.

"Stop talking rot, Nobby! We're alone for a moment, but you never know when the train'll stop and the guard'll put his head in. 'Nearer Germany,' Jim said."

"Aye—sure," the latter grunted. "I'm thinking of it all the time. Here are we—come all this way, been through all these things—and say, boys, we've enjoyed it, haven't we?"

"Aye, aye," they grunted.

"Well, we've been all through these times waitin' for our boys to come out and join in with 'em, and then we gets scooped up by the Hun, and won't have a chance of seein' all the fightin'."

"No?" lisped Larry. "I ain't so sure. I ain't going to Germany, Jim, not if I can help it. See here, chums! we're gettin' near Germany, and we've got to do something."

That was the sort of speech that pleased Nobby. He grunted his approval. He was the sort of man—steady, strong, and fearless—who was ready to carry out any sort of desperate enterprise; but to think one out, to make plans, that was entirely beyond the genial, hard-fighting Nobby.

"You get in at it, Bill," for, like his comrades, he had a great appreciation of that young fellow's shrewdness. "How 'ud you do it?"

It was Bill's turn to shrug his shoulders. "Do it?" he asked. "Ah! But chaps have jumped from a train before now—eh? What's to prevent us?"

"Them doors!" declared Nobby, pointing to the iron-bound doors which had been bolted on them.

"Aye, but there's a roof and a floor," said Jim.

"Sure!" Larry exclaimed, beginning to peer about him in the semi-darkness of the truck.

The very suggestion, patent though it was, brought them all to their feet, and for the next few minutes they were walking about the truck, feeling in all directions, they and half a dozen comrades with them. Then came a sharp, shrill cry from one of the men.

"What is it?" demanded Nobby roughly. "Ah! A loose board! Let's get there! Loose at one end. You wait—get out of the way! Christopher! It's coming!"

Nobby came with it too! For, getting his fingers underneath the end of the board which one of the men had discovered to be loose, he threw all his bull-like strength into it, tore the board up, and fell backward. But a moment later he was on his feet again, and had his fingers at the next board to that which was already wrenched out of position. This one, too, came away to the sound of thudding, thumping iron wheels on steel rails, and to the sound of splitting timber. A third time he ventured to pull, and there, at his feet, lay a hole through which three men could have gone together, a hole through which what little light there was outside penetrated, a hole which might easily lead to liberty, perhaps even to the road back to their comrades.

"There!" exclaimed Nobby, mopping the sweat from his forehead with the dirty sleeve of his khaki jacket.

"Sure!" grinned Larry, peering over the hole and watching the ground fleeing away from them.

"Interesting!" Jim ventured, lying flat on the floor, his head thrust through the square which Nobby's powerful fingers and muscles had provided for them. "But this here raises a conundrum; droppin' through on to the road would mean getting smashed by the axle of the wagon just behind it. One man might have a bit of luck, but t'others would get brained. Here's the hole right enough—but yet——"

"But, yes," said Bill thoughtfully.

"Ha!" gurgled Nobby, pushing his way nearer to them now that he had recovered from his effort, while other men pressed round them.

"Only," ventured Bill, breaking the long silence which followed, "only, you know——"

Nobby interrupted him. "I know what you're after, young Bill," he said. "It's always you as is makin' plans and thinkin' things out while the rest of us is puzzling. You shut up, mates; give him a moment to think. Now then!" he said when a few more minutes had passed—passed painfully, be it mentioned; for the opening at their feet, the gleam of light which came through it, the swiftly-passing road it disclosed, were tantalizing to the prisoners. In a measure their cage was broken open and they were free to go; but that rushing train, the swiftness of its pace, made escape from their open cage still an almost impossible matter.

"Only it ain't altogether impossible," said Bill. "No, not altogether."

"Ah! Oh!" Nobby gurgled.

"You see," said Bill, "a chap might sling himself out here with his head to the back of the wagon. T'other chaps would then hold his two legs and his two hands, so that he could get his head 'way out under the last beam and take a squint round. There'll be buffers, perhaps—that's certain in fact; there'll be couplings, perhaps there'll be handles. He'll get slung back here and give directions; and then out he goes again, and you chaps'll let go one hand, when he shouts or wriggles you'll let go the other, and the fellows with the feet'll help him to move backward; finally one leg will go, then the second, and after that——"

"Ah! ah!" lisped Larry. "Yep, it is after that. You ain't yet out of the wood—not by a long bit. Say, sonny, it's a bright idea; it's a really bright brain-wave, but——"

"Here, catch hold!" said Bill with decision. "Larry, you stand by and direct operations. Jim will hold one hand, Tom, here, the other. Nobby's the boy for the legs; I should be safe, I know, if he'd got a grip of 'em. Now then, swing me down. Don't be frightened! Here I go!"

And go he did. They gripped him by all four extremities and lowered him through the opening as they would have lowered a bundle or a bed, then very carefully they allowed his form to drift, as it were, backward till his head was under the farthest edge of the wagon. Peering up through a cloud of dust, which almost smothered him, Bill caught sight of a coupling clanging just overhead, and, on either side, of buffers, as he had suspected. Better than all, there was a strong iron handle or grip beside the coupling, and one immediately opposite it on the next truck, while below it was a foot-rest by means of which one could mount the side of this truck, which, like the one in which they were, was covered. He wriggled, and at the signal was hauled back.

"Waal?" demanded Larry hoarsely, while Nobby leaned over the opening and peered into his face, breathing heavily on him.

"Can't say," came from Bill, "only the trick can be done right enough. Next time I'll clamber along and see if the doors can be opened. Now you swing me down again, holding my wrists and ankles. When I double up my right hand, let it go, and keep me as far swung back as you can. When I've got a grip I'll move the other hand and you can let that go too. I'll jiggle my feet in turn as I want you to liberate 'em—get me?"

"You bet!" Nobby grunted. "Got you square! Take care, young Bill, now. We don't want to see you dashed to pieces, but——"

"But someone's got to do it," said Bill, "and I'm as active as any one of you and fairly light. Down I go! Hang on tight. And don't be afraid to let go when you get the signal."

He was swung through the opening again, and then allowed to drift backward. Once more he caught a glimpse of the clanging couplings just above his head, and of the grating buffers on either side. Then, measuring his distance, he closed the fingers of his right hand, and rather reluctantly that member was released, while he felt the grip on the ankles and the other wrist tighten as if the men were fearful of his escaping from between their fingers. Then he reached upward and without difficulty gripped the first of the handles. Shifting his grasp along it, he then closed the fingers of the other hand, and a minute later was holding on to the single broad handle, while the men inside the van allowed his form to drift still farther backward.

There was team work there between them all—intelligent team work. For though Larry and Jim and the others could not see what Bill was attempting, they could imagine it well enough, and the writhings of his body gave them a hint as to how they were to behave under every circumstance. Yet it was not without reluctance that they let his right leg loose, as he wriggled the ankle, and Nobby, who released it, was more than relieved when Jim, bending over the hole, called to two of them to grip his wrists, and was himself lowered through the opening, head downward, his feet and legs resting on the floor of the wagon. Twisting his head, he could see Bill's right leg swing backward, and presently watched as it was hooked over the foot-rest. Then came another wriggle of the other ankle, and a minute later Bill had practically disappeared, one leg only still showing hooked over the foot-rest.

By the time Jim had been hauled back, Bill had gone, and those within were left staring at the ground below fleeing past them. It seemed ages before there was a clang at one of the doors—the clang of a bolt being shot backward. Then a crevice of light appeared, and, to the amazement and joy of all, a hand was pushed into the compartment—a hand which Nobby gripped and presently drew on—drew on until he finally pulled Bill in amongst them.

"So you did it! Bravo!" he cried, while Jim pushed the sliding door, which Bill had liberated, farther back. As for the latter, he grinned upon his comrades.

"Easy as eating dinner," he said. "There wasn't a padlock, but only bolts, and they didn't take much opening. After that the trick was done. Here we are, boys—there's the road to liberty—only, of course, we've got to slow the train up first. Another conundrum I hadn't thought of."

"I have," Jim joined in. "See here, boys, this train may go rushing on for hours yet, and every foot of the way takes us farther into Germany. You might shout yourself hoarse and the driver of the locomotive would never hear. If we was to take those planks that we've torn from the floor and chuck 'em on the rails, they'd be cut up like carrots, and wouldn't no more derail her than if you was to chuck out Nobby there."

At that the worthy and pugnacious Nobby looked threateningly at the American, and opened his mouth to expostulate.

"No," went on Jim, in deep earnest, unmindful of what he had said, "you couldn't wreck the train if you wanted to. So next thing is to stop her."

"Aye, stop her!" Nobby grinned. "Ain't we all aware o' that? Clever, Jim—eh?"

"And to stop her," said Jim, unperturbed by Nobby's sudden explosion, or by his sarcasm, "ain't such a difficult task, I should reckon. Bill's done his bit; you boys wait here while I do my share; I'm going to uncouple the chains right here in front of us."

That, too, was no easy matter. Indeed it was one full of danger, as Jim himself appreciated when he gained the end of the truck, and, standing upon the foot-rest and clinging to the handles, endeavoured to manipulate the couplings. The truck in front wobbled and swayed horribly; that upon which he rested jerked to and fro, threatening to throw him from his hold, and the couplings were drawn tight—so tight that there was no possibility of unhooking them—while the buffers were parted by an inch or more of space. And so the position continued for a long ten minutes—those coupling chains in strongest tension, the buffers separated, no power that he could exert, nor indeed that a hundred men could exert, being able to unhook them.

And then came the sudden scream of the vacuum brakes, the buffers tapped gently together, and at once the ends of the two trucks between which he clung drew closer together. They were on a decline, and the driver of the engine had applied his brakes all along the train to keep her in control and steady the trucks as they ran downwards. As for the couplings, taut a moment before, they swung loosely now, so that Jim, bending over, picked up the link hooked upon the coupling in front and threw it off with an ease which surprised him. That link provided the only means of attaching them to the forward part of the train, and when, perhaps a minute later, the long line of trucks had gained the level again, and steam was given to the engine, of a sudden the truck in front leapt away from him, sped away, rushed off at uncommon speed, leaving Jim clambering there with only space in front of him.

It was a very hot and dishevelled Jim who clambered back into the compartment, and it was a very dishevelled and excited party that stood at the open doorway as the speed of this latter half of the train slowly diminished. Then anxiety took possession of them, for far away in the distance they heard the shrill whistle of the locomotive—the locomotive which had dragged the train from which they were now parted.

"Driver's discovered it—sure! Yep. Awkward! That means that he'll stop the blamed train, and perhaps come back to us—what's that, eh?"

"Conductor right behind has wakened up and made the same sort of discovery," said Bill; "reckons the train has broken in half—as it has—eh? There go the hand-brakes. Couldn't ask for anything better. Boys, make ready!"

From outside the car came the scream and scrape of brakes, while the landscape, which had been flashing past them, now glided by at respectable speed, which encouraged the prisoners immensely. They crowded to the door, waited till Bill gave the order, and then, as the car slowed down to quite reasonable speed, that made a leap to the ground quite practicable, they dropped off one by one—some fifteen of them—and presently, gathering together, moved off along the track. But first of all, as the last man left the car he had been careful to close the doorway.

"You never know," said Bill, as he warned them. "Perhaps they'll think that putting the brakes on down that decline somehow unhooked the coupling. If they saw the door open they'd realize at once that a trick had been played on them. Let 'em talk about the breaking in two of the train and wonder how it happened, and get to work to hook the two trucks together again. Perhaps they won't suspect that we've got out, for there won't be anything to tell 'em. Now, boys, here we all are! About turn! Quick march! This trek ought to take us, with a little more luck, into the lines of the Allies."

CHAPTER XIX Plots within Plots

"You're sure—certain, Private Dan Holman?" the Divisional Commander asked him for perhaps the twentieth time, some two or three days after that parade which had followed the discovery of the presence of a spy in the midst of this particular American division. "Certain you'd recognize him? Remember, boy, you caught only one single glimpse of him, and that under torchlight. A man looks queer under the glare of a searchlight—different from what he looks under the moonbeams."

Dan gulped. Even an American soldier, with all that assurance born of the freedom of the vast country in which he lives, may feel disconcerted under the gaze of a superior officer, indeed under the gaze—the almost incredulous gaze—of a number of officers. Dan gulped, therefore, but his eyes, steadily fixed on those of the Commanding Officer, never wavered.

"Sure, sir," he answered. "It sounds queer, I know, but I've laid in bed thinking it over, and I'm as sure as sure—surer than I was when I first came along with the information. That man that came down in the aeroplane—for I take it he was dropped, as the Germans have dropped spies before—was the same man that shot the father of a chum of mine way back in a saloon by the copper-mine near Salt Lake City, the same chap as drilled me through with a bullet from a revolver. I ain't dreamin'; the thing's sure; and the fellow's somewhere about in these parts dressed in our uniform."

A long and secret discussion followed. Dan was closeted with the Intelligence Branch of the division for many hours, and on more than one occasion, and thereafter, though the life of the camp was unaltered, though nothing untoward seemed to be occurring, and though the ordinary rank and file and their officers were entirely ignorant of what had been or of the suspicions in their Commanding Officer's mind that a spy was lurking in the neighbourhood, active steps were being taken to come upon Heinrich Hilker.

"We'll telephone along to the other commanders, and notify the French and the British; we'll get every billet, every hut, even the woods searched. If the chap's in the neighbourhood we'll see if we can ferret out the hiding-place he's selected. Gee! it makes me feel uneasy to think that there's a spy somewhere here—a fellow that knows all about us Americans. What's more, it makes me feel worse to believe that he's got an accomplice; for otherwise how could he have slipped through our clutches when we guessed his presence within a few minutes of his arrival?"

Up and down the line, from the trenches to a point some miles behind, French and British and American military police and Intelligence branches caused the closest search to be made—a search which naturally enough included that church in which Heinrich Hilker and Alphonse, a spy like himself, had taken shelter. But granted that Heinrich himself was cunning, Alphonse was still more so. One of that band of individuals sent out broadcast by Germany to penetrate peacefully the countries of their neighbours, to prepare the ground in case of a German invasion, and to keep Berlin informed as to all local affairs and on every matter of importance, Alphonse had lived the life of a schemer for many years. He, in fact, chuckled on numerous occasions at the ease with which he had hoodwinked the simple peasants with whom he had taken up his residence. Even in his cups he had, as a general rule, been extraordinarily careful and crafty; and now, as he went his way, unsuspected by the Americans, his craft and his guile allowed of his throwing dust in their eyes also.

"You've got to stay here," he told his accomplice as he visited him one night in his lair at the top of the tower. "Here's better than anywhere else, because every billet is being searched. There isn't a hut, an outhouse, or any farm or hovel in these parts and right along the line that isn't being looked into. They've been to the church, too, but——" and then he began to cackle, that horrid cackle which grated upon Heinrich's nerves so much.

"But!" the latter ejaculated curtly; "what then? How is this place secure? Tell me," he asked anxiously; for indeed he had observed much coming and going of American soldiers, had seen staff cars arriving bearing French and British officers, and, though that was no unusual occurrence, he could guess from the bustle which he could see and note from his peep-hole, that something unusual was happening.

"But——" began Alphonse again, crouching beside the spy, his huge knuckles taut as he clenched his fists, "but——" and then cackled once more, so that Heinrich could have hit him so great was his vexation.

"But—you fool! Go on!"

"S—sh! Steady! Men down below, I hear them."

Heinrich had heard not so much as a sound, but the crafty villain beside him had spent years in eavesdropping—in listening and avoiding people whom it was undesirable he should meet—and now, above the gentle rustle of the straw in which he lay, he heard the distinct murmur of voices, the slip and slither of booted feet, the sound of men in the body of the church. He lifted a finger to his lips, and, turning silently with a snake-like movement, bent over the square opening leading to the loft. Lights were flashing down below. He could see men walking about, catching only a glimpse of them as the flash of an electric torch settled upon their figures. He heard steps on the broken and wrecked stone stairs which led to the chamber down below, and then he became active. Those powerful if attenuated arms of his were stretched out, the two hands gripped the rickety ladder by which he had ascended, and swiftly, yet with the utmost care and silence, he drew it upward. To cover the opening with some straw was an easy matter, and presently, long before the American soldiers arrived in the chamber referred to, the square through which Alphonse had entered Heinrich's hiding-place had been, as it were, obliterated. So much so, that though the light was cast upward, the broken boards above, the wisps of straw dangling through the crevice, the wrecked appearance of the place, in fact the very stars visible through the shattered tiles above, and the lack of all means of reaching this aerie, persuaded the searchers that no spy could be lurking there.

"Empty—sure!" came a voice. "'Taint likely that he's here. Looks as though the tower might fall to pieces any moment. So down we go! Easy with it, boys, those stairs take a lot of climbing."

Sounds receded. Footsteps were heard again in the body of the church. Lights flashed hither and thither and then disappeared. Silence followed, except that from outside came again the murmur of voices as the soldiers departed. Heinrich breathed freely once more, while Alphonse gave vent to a deep-throated, husky cackle.

"And so I cheated 'em time and again," he breathed, his eyes riveted now to a crevice between the tiles through which he could see the search-party of the Americans receding, "cheated 'em—these fools of French peasants—same as I'll cheat the soldiers down below, and help Germany to gain Paris—to gain Paris," he repeated, this time with something approaching a hiss, his eyes flashing. "Paris, my friend Heinrich!"

His companion, who a little while before had shrunk from contact with this bony, attenuated scoundrel, and who, to speak the truth, was half fearful of him, now actually put up with a grip of his fingers as they closed round his arm, and, crouching on his knees, Heinrich Hilker repeated that word.

"Ah!" he said, "Paris! Paris!—ah! that is the aim we have! But listen, Alphonse! We failed to drive a wedge between the British and the French, we failed to reach the Channel ports, but there is always Paris—the heart of France and the French people. Let us but reach it, let us but get our fingers about it, and—ah!—and we will strangle the life out of these Frenchmen."

His eyes blazed. Sitting there he gripped his two hands together, squeezing the palms and interlocking his fingers, feeling as though he had already a strangling grip upon our gallant ally. Thereafter the two lay quietly together discussing matters in whispers, and had there been someone at hand to hear their words, what a commotion would have resulted when the information was transmitted to the Americans and sent to the French and British armies. For Heinrich had penetrated into the Allied line with the knowledge that presently Germany was to try another onslaught. His duty it was to obtain further and more intimate information, and once he had secured it he was to return by any means available and repeat that information to the German High Command.

But the time had not yet arrived. So close was the hunt for Heinrich, thanks to the report which Dan Holman had given his Commanding Officer, that he was held a close prisoner in the tower, and would have starved, indeed, had it not been for the crafty and creeping Alphonse.

"But never mind," he told the latter one day some two weeks later. "Thanks to this note which one of our aeroplanes dropped, and which you brought to me, I know that our people are prepared. The blow will fall shortly; not, you understand, my friend, the great blow—the big blow that will take us and our armies to Paris—but the preliminary one, just to open the way, to give us elbow room, to let us bring on the forces which will then dash on to the city. Alphonse, that will be the time for you. Dream of it—a German army in Paris! Think of what you and I will do! Think of the loot!—of the gold! of the jewels!—think!"