Cover art

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THE SPY UNMASKED

A HERO OF LIÉGE

A STORY OF THE GREAT WAR

BY

HERBERT STRANG

ILLUSTRATED BY CYRUS CUNEO

LONDON

HENRY FROWDE

HODDER AND STOUGHTON

First Printed in 1914

HERBERT STRANG'S WAR STORIES

SULTAN JIM: A STORY OF GERMAN AGGRESSION.

THE AIR SCOUT: A STORY OF HOME DEFENCE.

THE AIR PATROL: A STORY OF THE NORTH-WEST FRONTIER.

ROB THE RANGER: A STORY OF THE GREAT FIGHT FOR CANADA.

ONE OF CLIVE'S HEROES: A STORY OF THE GREAT FIGHT FOR INDIA.

BARCLAY OF THE GUIDES: A STORY OF THE INDIAN MUTINY.

THE ADVENTURES OF HARRY ROCHESTER: A STORY OF MARLBOROUGH'S CAMPAIGNS.

BOYS OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE: A STORY OF THE PENINSULAR WAR.

KOBO: A STORY OF THE RUSSO-JAPANESE WAR.

BROWN OF MOUKDEN: A STORY OF THE RUSSO-JAPANESE WAR.

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CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

[THE SPY UNMASKED]

[THE PEASANTS SCATTERED OUT OF ITS PATH]

[THE END OF THE ZEPPELIN]

[CLEARING THE ROAD]

[CHAPTER I--THE OPENING OF THE GAME]

At nine o'clock on Tuesday morning, August 4, Kenneth Amory walked into the private office of the head of the well-known firm of Amory & Finkelstein, gutta-percha manufacturers, of Cologne. Max Finkelstein, the head of the firm, swung round on his revolving chair, moved his hand backward over his brush-like crop of brownish hair, and looked up through his spectacles at Kenneth, his stout florid countenance wearing an expression of worry.

"I sent for you to tell you to pack up and get away by the first train," he said, in German. "Things are looking very black; the sooner you are home, the better."

"Our dear Max is jumpy," came in smooth tones from the third person in the room, the ends of his well-brushed moustache rising stiffly as he smiled. He was tall and slim--a contrast to his cousin Finkelstein, who had reached that period of life when good food, a successful business, and Germanic lack of exercise, tend to corpulence. "I tell him he need not worry," the speaker went on. "It will be as in '70."

"Provided that England----" Finkelstein was beginning, but Kurt Hellwig broke in with a laugh.

"Oh, England! England will protest a little, and preach a little, and take care not to get a scratch."

"Don't you be too sure of that," said Kenneth, rather warmly.

"No? You think otherwise?" Hellwig was smiling still. "Well, we shall see. Perhaps you have private information?"

His mocking smile and ironical tone brought a flush to Kenneth's cheeks.

"I don't want any private information to know what England will do," cried the boy.

"True, the public information is conclusive. England is helpless; she suffers from an internal complaint; she is breaking up."

"That will do, Kurt," said Finkelstein, anticipating an explosive word from Kenneth, who was quick-tempered, and apt to fall out with Hellwig. "Really, Ken, you will be safer at home, and if you don't go now you will lose your chance; all the trains will be required for the troops."

"I'd rather wait a little longer," replied Kenneth. "It's all so interesting. I've never seen a mobilisation before."

"It will do him good to see how we manage things in Germany," said Hellwig. "And since England will remain neutral, he will run no risk."

Finkelstein, easygoing and indolent where business was not concerned, yielded the point.

"Very well," he said. "Do as you please. But I recommend you to pack up in readiness for a sudden departure. For my part, I hope Kurt is right; I think of my business."

"We all think of our business," said Hellwig, with a slight stress upon the pronoun.

"Our business--yes," said Finkelstein. "We shall all suffer, I fear. But if it is as in '70----"

Kenneth did not wait to hear further discussion on the chances of the war. Remarking that he would see the others at lunch, he hurried away into the street. Awakened very early that morning by the rumbling of carts and the tramp of horses, he had got up and gone out, to watch the continual passage of regiments of infantry and cavalry, batteries of artillery, pontoon trains, commissariat and ammunition wagons, through the streets and the railway station. Everything was swift and systematic; the troops, though a little hazy as to their destination, were in high spirits; the war would soon be over, they assured their anxious friends.

It was all very new and exciting to Kenneth Amory, who had only vague memories of the English mobilisation for the South African war, when he was a child of four. His father had founded, with Max Finkelstein, an Anglo-German business which had attained great dimensions. Finkelstein controlled the German headquarters at Cologne; Amory looked after things in London. The latter died suddenly in the winter of 1912, leaving his son Kenneth, then nearly seventeen years of age, to the guardianship of Finkelstein, in whom he justly placed implicit confidence.

Since then Kenneth had spent much of his time in Germany, learning the business under Finkelstein's direction. He had a great liking for his father's partner, who was a keen man of business, scrupulously exact in his duties as guardian, and a "good fellow." Finkelstein had announced that Kenneth, as soon as he came of age, would be taken into partnership. The firm would still be Amory & Finkelstein.

When Kurt Hellwig spoke of "our business," his use of the first personal pronoun must be taken to have implied a commendable feeling: he had no actual share in the business. His connection with it was a proof of his cousin Max's kindness of heart. Hellwig had brilliant abilities; in particular, remarkable linguistic powers; but he had never been able to turn them to account in the various careers which he had successively attempted. Finkelstein had more than once lent him a helping hand; since Mr. Amory's death he had employed him as occasional representative in England. Needless to say, he did not entrust any matter of importance to his erratic cousin; and the salary he paid him was proportionate rather to relationship than to services.

Kenneth returned to Finkelstein's house for the midday lunch. Neither Finkelstein nor Hellwig was present.

"Father sent word that he was detained," said Frieda, Finkelstein's daughter, a little younger than Kenneth. "We are not to wait for him."

"He seemed very worried when I saw him this morning," said Kenneth. "Of course business will be at a standstill, especially if we come into the war."

"It will be hateful if you do," said the girl. "But you won't, Kurt says. We have done nothing to you."

"Kurt knows nothing about it. He thinks we are afraid to fight. He's wrong. Of course we are not concerned with your quarrel with Russia; but when it comes to your attacking France, quite unprovoked, and bullying Belgium to let you take the easy way, you can hardly expect us to look on quietly. But we won't talk about that, Frieda; you and I mustn't quarrel."

Frieda and Kenneth were very good friends. One bond of union between them was a common dislike of Kurt Hellwig, whose sarcastic tongue was a constant irritant. Kenneth related what had passed at the office that morning.

"Why has he come back?" said Frieda. "He has been away for weeks; I wish he would stay away altogether."

"Do you?"

"Of course I do. What do you mean?"

"I fancy Kurt thinks you admire him--because he wants you to, I suppose."

"Will you take me to Cousin Amalia's after lunch?" asked Frieda, with a disconcerting change of subject. "I promised to spend the rest of the day with her. And you'll fetch me this evening, won't you?"

After escorting Frieda to her cousin's, Kenneth strolled about, watching the war preparations, then turned homewards to pack his bag, as he had promised Finkelstein to do. On the way he bought a copy of the Cologne Gazette containing a mangled version of Sir Edward Grey's speech in the House of Commons on the previous day. When he had finished packing, he sat down with the paper at the open window of his room. Having risen early, he was rather tired, and the heat of the afternoon soon sent him to sleep.

He was wakened by voices near at hand. There was no one but himself in the room; after a moment's confusion of senses he realised that the sounds came up from the balcony beneath his window. It was reached from the drawing-room, and since it was shaded by a light awning, someone had evidently gone there for the sake of fresh air.

The awning concealed the speakers from Kenneth's view, but in a few moments he recognised Hellwig's voice. The other speaker was a man and a stranger. Kenneth at first paid no attention to them; Hellwig had many acquaintances, and was fond of entertaining them. But presently he caught a sentence that made him suddenly alert.

"The bridge has been mined."

It was the stranger speaking, in German. Kenneth rose silently from his chair, and leant out of the window, so that he should not miss a word.

"The train can be fired at any moment, thanks to our forethought in tunnelling between the mill-house and the bridge."

"That is well," said Hellwig, in the tone of a superior commending the report brought him by a subordinate. "Get back as quickly as you can, and tell them to be ready to act instantly on receipt of a marconigram."

"The stations are closed to private messages," remarked the visitor.

"Yes: but mine will get through. What news have you?"

"When I left yesterday the Belgians were becoming alive to their danger. They are mobilising feverishly. The forts at Liége are fully manned. But many people refuse to believe that we shall go to extremes and invade their territory. They say that its inviolability is guaranteed by treaty."

Hellwig laughed.

"Keep in touch with London," he said. "In a few hours I shall be cut off from London except through Amsterdam, and I shall have to move my headquarters there. You remember the address?"

"As before?"

"Yes. Send there any information that comes through from London, and keep me informed of your whereabouts."

"There was talk, as I came through, of possible English intervention. I learn that crowds clamoured for war in front of Buckingham Palace last night."

"A mistake: they were shouting against war. The British government will not dare to strike: even if they do, they will be too late. We are ready: they are not. Before they have made up their minds we shall be across the Belgian frontier and into France."

The conversation continued for a few minutes longer, then the visitor rose to go. Acting on impulse, Kenneth ran out of his room, and was nearing the foot of the staircase as the two men came from the drawing-room. He had the Cologne Gazette in his hand.

"Have you read Sir Edward Grey's speech?" he asked Hellwig.

"Not yet. Is it worth the trouble?" replied Hellwig in his smooth mocking tones.

"I thought you hadn't, or you wouldn't be so cock-sure," Kenneth returned. "I rather think the British government have already made up their minds."

"So you have been eavesdropping?" said Hellwig quickly.

"You are a spy!" cried Kenneth--"you and your friend."

"Is that any concern of yours?"

"Only to this extent; that I'll have nothing more to do with you," said Kenneth hotly, conscious at the moment that it was a foolish thing to say, and feeling the more irritated.

"That will kill me," sighed Hellwig.

"And Max shall know it," Kenneth went on. "He doesn't know that you've been up to this sort of thing, I'm sure."

"Certainly; Max shall know that I am doing something for my country. You are, no doubt, doing wonders for yours."

"I wouldn't do such dirty work as yours," cried Kenneth, more and more angry under Hellwig's calmness.

At this moment the outer door opened, and Frieda came in from the street.

"What is the matter?" she asked, looking from Kenneth's flushed face to Hellwig's smiling one, upon which, however, there flickered now a shade of embarrassment.

"The fellow is a spy!" Kenneth burst out.

"I was explaining, my dear cousin, that I am doing at least something for my country," Hellwig said.

"We should have preferred that it were anything else," said Frieda coldly. "Come, Ken, I've something to say to you."

She hurried along the corridor, not heeding Hellwig's bow as she passed. Kenneth followed her. Hellwig shrugged, and left the house with his friend.

"How did it come out?" asked Frieda, when Kenneth was alone with her in the drawing-room.

"They were talking under my window. He accused me of eavesdropping. I couldn't help hearing them at first; and when I found out what they were at, of course I listened. You have come back alone?"

"Yes. I met Father. He says that your government has sent us an ultimatum, and war is certain. You must go home at once. Father sent me to tell you."

"All right. He sneered about my doing wonders for my country. I'll do something better than spying. I'll volunteer for the Flying Corps."

"Oh, don't do that! It's so dangerous."

"No more dangerous than being in the firing line."

"But why do anything at all--of that sort, I mean? War is horrible--horrible!"

"It is, for everyone. I'm sure none of our people wanted it. But if we're in for it, every fellow who can do anything will be required, and you wouldn't wish me to skulk at home while others fight?"

"I'd rather you should fight than spy. You must make haste. Martial law is proclaimed. Father called at the station, and found that there will be a train at half-past nine to-night: it will probably be the last. And the stationmaster said that anyone who wanted to secure a seat must be early, for there's sure to be a great rush. Have you done your packing?"

"Yes; there's only one bag I need take. The less baggage the better. I'll run down to the station and get my ticket now, to make sure of it."

"Don't be long. Father will be back to dinner, and he wants to say goodbye to you, and to give you some messages for business friends in London."

Kenneth hurried to the station. There were signs of new excitement in the streets. Newsvendors were shouting that Belgium was invaded. People thronged the beer-shops, eagerly discussing the situation. Already there were cries of "Down with the English!" Tourists of all nationalities were flocking to the station and to the landing-stage for the Rhine steamers. Soldiers were everywhere.

At the station ticket office there was a long queue of people waiting. Kenneth saw little chance of obtaining a ticket for some time; but being well acquainted with the stationmaster, he sought his assistance and was provided with a written pass.

"I can't guarantee that you will get beyond Aix-la-Chapelle," said the official. "You must take your chance."

Kenneth set off to return. Attracted by a crowd at the door of one of the hotels, he went up to discover the cause of the assemblage. A mountain of luggage was piled on the pavement, and the distracted owners, turned out of the hotel, were vainly seeking porters to convey it to the station. The riff-raff of the streets were jeering at them. Kenneth turned away, feeling that the scene was ominous.

He had walked only a short distance from the spot when a hand touched his shoulder from behind.

"You are under arrest, sir," said a police sergeant, who was accompanied by two constables.

"Nonsense," said Kenneth, good-humouredly. "You have mistaken your man."

"Your name is Kenneth Amory?" said the sergeant.

"Something like that," said Kenneth, amused at the man's pronunciation.

"There is no mistake, then. You are arrested."

"Indeed! On what charge?"

"As a suspect."

"Suspected of what?"

"Of spying."

This took Kenneth's breath away. Mechanically he walked a few steps beside the officer, the two constables following. Then realising the nature of the charge against him, he stopped short.

"It is false!" he cried. "I am no spy. Where is your warrant? What right have you to arrest me?"

"No warrant is needed," replied the sergeant, courteously enough. "You will no doubt clear yourself if you are innocent."

"Of course I am innocent. My friends will prove that. Oh! I won't give you any trouble: the sooner I get to the police-station, the better."

"That is reasonable," said the sergeant.

They marched on. Kenneth looked eagerly at all the passers-by in the hope of finding a friend who would vouch for him; but he recognised no familiar face. On reaching the station he was searched, but deprived of nothing except his pocket-book and the letters it contained.

"They are only private letters," he explained. "The whole matter is ridiculous. You will let me write a note to a friend, who will speak for me?"

"Certainly," said the officer, "provided I see what you say."

Kenneth quickly scribbled a note to Max Finkelstein, and handed it to the officer, who remarked that it had nothing suspicious about it, and placed it in an envelope which Kenneth addressed.

"I shall be released as soon as Herr Finkelstein comes?" asked Kenneth.

"That is doubtful," replied the officer. "It will probably be necessary to bring you before the magistrate to-morrow."

"But I am going to England to-night."

"To England! That is suspicious. Herr Finkelstein may have influence. We shall see."

A short conversation, carried on in low tones, ensued between the sergeant and his superior officer. They were consulting as to where the prisoner should be placed: the cells, it appeared, were full. Ultimately Kenneth was taken to a room on the ground floor. The window was barred and shuttered on the outside, and light entered only by two small round apertures in the shutters.

"A black hole, this," he said to the sergeant.

"It will not be for long, if you are innocent," replied the man.

Then he shut and locked the door; Kenneth was left to himself.

[CHAPTER II--THE FIRST TRICK]

With the door shut, the room was almost wholly dark. It contained no furniture but a plain deal table and a wooden chair. Kenneth sat down and ruminated. His position was annoying, but also mildly exciting. It would be something to tell his people when he got home, that he had been arrested as a spy.

It was now five o'clock. Dinner was at seven: his train left at half-past nine, and the stationmaster had advised him to be at the station at least an hour in advance. He had addressed his note to Finkelstein at the office, and expected that his friend would arrive within half an hour or so and procure his release. In the absence of any evidence against him a prolonged detention would surely be impossible.

Perhaps half an hour had passed when he heard footsteps on the passage; the key turned in the lock, and he started up, expecting to see Finkelstein. But there entered a constable, bringing a mug of beer and a piece of rye bread.

"My friend Herr Finkelstein has not come?" Kenneth asked.

"Nobody has come for you," replied the man.

"My note was taken to him?"

"If you wrote a note, I daresay it was."

"Aren't you sure?"

"I have only just come on duty, sir."

The constable set the food on the table and went out, locking the door.

Anticipating dinner, Kenneth was not tempted to eat the coarse fare provided. He was still not seriously alarmed, though his annoyance grew with the passing minutes. Finkelstein never left his office until half-past six; there was plenty of time for him to have received the note--unless there had been delay in delivering it. This possibility was somewhat perturbing.

Kenneth began to wonder what had led to his arrest. He was quite unknown to the police; nothing in his appearance was aggressively English. So far as he knew he had no enemy in Cologne, so that it seemed unlikely that anyone had put the police on his track out of sheer malice.

His thoughts reverted to the incident of the afternoon. The discovery that Hellwig was in the German secret service, surprising as it was, made clear certain things that had puzzled him. During his frequent visits to London, Hellwig was accustomed to stay at the Amorys' house, and had many callers who came to see him privately, on the firm's business, as Kenneth had supposed. It seemed only too probable now that they were agents in the work of espionage.

A sudden suspicion flashed into Kenneth's mind. Was it possible that his arrest was due to Hellwig? From what he had overheard it was clear that Hellwig was a man of considerable authority in the secret service. A word from him would no doubt suffice. But what could his motive be? Kenneth was under no illusion as to the man's character. He had always thoroughly disliked and distrusted him, and felt instinctively that the dislike was mutual. Could it be that Hellwig, knowing himself discovered, and fearing that Kenneth, on his return to London, would inform the authorities, had taken this step to save himself? It seemed an unnecessary precaution, for if war broke out between Britain and Germany, Hellwig would make no more journeys to London for some time to come.

The more Kenneth thought over the matter, the more convinced he became that Hellwig, whatever his motive might be, had caused his arrest. The conviction destroyed his confidence in an early release. The man would stick at nothing. He would have foreseen an application to Finkelstein, and taken steps to forestall it. What if the note should never reach Finkelstein?

Kenneth was now thoroughly alarmed. The Germans had a short way with spies, or those they regarded as spies, even during peace; it was likely to be shorter and sharper than ever on the outbreak of war. The prospect of being taken out and shot sent cold thrills through him.

Contemplating this dark eventuality he heard heavy footsteps overhead. He looked up, and for the first time saw a glint of light from the ceiling in one corner of the room. The footsteps passed: all was silent again.

Kenneth sat thinking. If his suspicions were well founded, he felt that his doom was sealed. It would be easy for a man like Hellwig to fabricate evidence against him. In default of Finkelstein's assistance, which Hellwig would take care to prevent, his only means of safety lay in flight. But what chance was there of escaping from this locked and shuttered room? An examination of the window showed the hopelessness of it.

The faint streak of light above again attracted his notice. Noiselessly drawing the table beneath it, he mounted to examine its source. A portion of the plaster had fallen away from the ceiling, and the light filtered through a narrow crack in the flooring above. This discovery, under pressure of circumstances, gave him a gleam of hope. Taking out his pocket knife, he began to scrape quietly at the plaster, gradually enlarging the hole. What there might be above he could not tell; judging by the passing in and out of the footsteps the room was unoccupied.

While he was engaged on this work he heard steps in the passage without. Springing down, he swept on to the floor, and under the table, the plaster he had scraped from the ceiling, then stood waiting eagerly. Perhaps it was Finkelstein at last.

The door opened. A man was thrust into the room, and the door again locked. The newcomer swore.

"You're an Englishman?" cried Kenneth.

"Do I find a companion in adversity?" said the man. "We can condole."

"Who are you?"

"What is your father? How many horses does he keep? Bless me, how this reminds me of my innocent childhood! 'More light,' as Goethe said. But I can see well enough to know that you are a youngster. Sad, sad!"

Peering at the stranger, Kenneth saw a man of about thirty-five, with hair en brosse, Germanic moustache, and a German military uniform.

"I should pass in a crowd, one would think," the man went on, smiling under Kenneth's scrutiny. "But Fate is unkind."

"You are a spy?" said Kenneth.

"And you, my friend?"

"No. They say so, but I'm not."

"They say so, and they will have their way. Ah, well! They say also, that it is a sweet and comely thing to die for one's country. I always thought I should die in my boots."

"Can they prove it against you?"

"A scrap of paper! They can't read it, but what matters that? A note in cipher is evidence enough. But I shall not die unavenged: they are crying in the streets that war is declared, and I fancy that Emperor William has bitten a little more than he can chew. What brings you to this deplorable extremity?"

"I don't know: a private enemy, I think."

"Well, the rain falls on the just and the unjust. I'm sorry for you. Haven't you any friend, though, who can get this door unlocked?"

Kenneth explained briefly what had happened. Then, feeling a strange liking for his companion, he added:

"When you came in, I was wondering about the chances of escape."

"A waste of brain tissue, unless you have some talisman. But tell me, you have some definite idea?"

"You see that hole in the ceiling? I was enlarging it."

"Ha! A man of action! Nil desperandum, eh? Let me have a look at it."

He mounted on the table, and thrust his hand into the opening.

"I say, youngster," he said, a note of eagerness in his voice, "there is a chance, on my life there is. The boards above are not over firm. We may be skipping out of the frying-pan into the fire, but one can only die once. Continue with your work; I'll mount guard and warn you of anyone approaching."

Kenneth scraped away with his penknife, until the hole was large enough to admit his head and shoulders. The light, coming through a single crack, did not increase, so that the enlargement of the hole might easily escape notice if a constable entered. The stranger put the chair on the table.

"Mount on that," he said; "put your back against the boards, and shove--gently."

Kenneth did as he was instructed. The pressure of his back started the nails, and a plank rose, with an alarming creak.

"That won't be heard through the rumble of traffic outside," said the man. "Wait a little. You don't know anything of the room above?"

"Nothing. I heard somebody go in and out a while ago; I think it is empty."

"Well now: let us keep cool. We can get into the room: that is certain. Can we get out of it? We shall have to descend the stairs. Our chance of life depends on one half-minute. 'Can a man die better than facing fearful odds?' Look here: we'll toss. Heads: we'll go up; tails--why, hang it, we'll still go up! Fortuna fortibus! Wait till we hear the rumble of the next artillery wagon; then! ..."

They had not long to wait. Heavy traffic passed at short intervals.

"Now!" said the stranger.

Kenneth gave a heave. In a moment two planks were removed. Resting his arms on the edges of those on either side of the gap, he hoisted himself up. His companion quickly followed. They stood in the room.

The next half minute was filled to breathlessness. It was a bedroom. A street lamp outside threw a little light into it. Hanging from a peg on the door was a policeman's tunic and helmet.

"Fortune's our friend," murmured the stranger.

In ten seconds he had helped Kenneth to don the uniform. They crept out of the room, and peeped over the stair rail. The way was clear. All sounds within were smothered by the noise in the street. They stole downstairs, past the closed door of the guardroom, through the outer door, and into the open. "War with England!" shouted a newsman at the corner.

"We win the first trick!" chuckled the stranger, as they hurried along.

[CHAPTER III--THE SECOND TRICK]

"The first trick--yes: but what are trumps?" said Kenneth, in reply to his companion's remark.

"Toujours l'audace!" the stranger answered. "But my life isn't worth a moment's purchase. I owe you a few minutes; 'for this relief much thanks.' Leave me now, and make for your friends. They will look after you. I have none."

"Not a bit of it," replied Kenneth instantly. "We stick together. I know a quiet place where we can consult. Step out briskly, as if we have important business on hand."

"There's nothing hypothetical about that," murmured the other. "On, then!"

They hurried along the street, which was crowded with persons of all ages, some talking excitedly, others cheering and singing patriotic songs. Now and then there was a cry of "Down with England!" The two fugitives walked quickly, dodging among the crowd to avoid the wearers of military or police uniforms, their own uniforms clearing a way for them. As they passed a beershop, the outside tables of which were thronged, the drinkers cheered them and broke lustily into the song of Deutschland über Alles.

As soon as possible they turned into a side street, less populous; and Kenneth, who knew the city well, directed his course towards the river, to a little secluded nook, where he hoped it would be possible to hold a quiet consultation. In the hurry of escape and the anxious transit of the streets he had been unable to devote a moment's thought to their future action. It was clear that their safety hung by a thread; their only chance was to lay their plans calmly, taking due account of the present circumstances and future contingencies.

They reached their destination. There was nobody about.

"We may have a few minutes to ourselves," said Kenneth. He took out his watch. "It is nearly ten o'clock. My train has gone, so that's out of the question."

"You were leaving?"

"Yes; my friends thought I had better go; that was before war with England was certain. I suppose it is true?"

"The time limit has not expired, certainly; but there can't be any doubt about it. Germany can't afford to yield about Belgium, and we can't afford to let her have a walk over. We may be quite sure that no Englishman of fighting age will get away now without trouble. But your friends will protect you; again I say, don't consider me."

"That's all right. In any case I don't want to get Max Finkelstein into a row."

"Of Amory & Finkelstein?"

"Yes; I'm Kenneth Amory. Do you speak German, by the way?"

"Like a native. I was at school at Heidelberg."

"That's a help. But for the life of me I can't think of a way of getting out. When they discover our escape they'll watch the stations, the piers, and the roads. Our uniforms won't be a bit of use."

"Oh! for the wings of a dove!--or an eagle would be more to the purpose."

"By Jove! that gives me an idea. I've done some flying; I was going to try for a place in our Flying Corps. If we could only bag an aeroplane!"

"A sheer impossibility, I should say."

Kenneth stood silent in the attitude of one deep in thought. Every now and again his right eyelid twitched--a little involuntary mannerism which came into play at such times. His companion watched him curiously. At last a look of resolution chased the doubt from his face.

"It's the only way," he said; "we must have a try. There are plenty in Cologne. They've been using a new aviation ground lately; the regular aerodrome was too small for them. They don't fly at night. All the machines will be in their hangars. Of course they'll be under guard; but we might get hold of one by a trick. Give me another minute or two to think it out: I know the place well."

After a few minutes' silence there ensued an earnest conversation between the two. The upshot of it was that they hurried by unfrequented roads to the new aviation ground. It was a large enclosure defended by a wooden fence about eight feet high, with barbed wire along the top. A sentry stood at the gate near the sheds. The whole place was in darkness, but a little beyond it, on the far side of the road, shone the lights of a beershop.

Leaving his companion in a dark corner, Kenneth hastened alone to the beershop. At the tables outside sat several men, mechanics in appearance. Kenneth slackened his pace to a policeman's walk, and passed by, throwing a keen glance at the men, who gave him a perfunctory salute. On reaching the remotest table he whispered a word or two to the man drinking alone there. The man left his bock, and rising, joined Kenneth, who had drawn back into the darkness.

"You can be discreet?" he said.

"What is it, Herr Policeman?" the man replied, doubtfully.

"It is a question of a spy. One of the mechanics is suspected. Do you know a short dark man who has recently come in?"

The question was a bait cast at a venture; Kenneth was elated at the man's reply.

"Yes, to be sure; there is a new fellow, mechanic to Herr Lieutenant Breul. None of us liked the look of him. If he is a spy! ... Not that he is particularly short."

"Well, not so very short."

"Nor more than common dark."

"Not a gipsy, perhaps; but still, rather dark and certainly not tall."

"That's the fellow to a hair. He's a boor: why, he called me a stupid pig only this morning. That's suspicious in itself; for I'm not a stupid pig; I can prove it by my school certificates."

"Of course; you wouldn't be employed here if you were a stupid pig. Well now, Herr Lieutenant Breul ought to be warned."

"That's true. The Herr Lieutenant is not here now; he has gone for the night with the other officers. But it would be better to arrest the man at once. A spy! We'll do for him, me and my mates."

"Not so fast. We must make sure of the man. I ought to hold him under observation. But it is important to keep the matter quiet. The question is, can you manage to let me have a sight of the man without attracting attention?"

The man scratched his head.

"You don't want to enter by the gate, Herr Policeman?"

"No. It would never do to let it get about that a spy was found here."

"Well, it's not an easy matter, but I'll go to the sheds and see what can be done."

The man went away, Kenneth hastened to the spot where he had left his companion.

"Things look possible," he said. "But your uniform is a difficulty. A German officer mustn't enter the enclosure like a thief, and without the password you can't go in by the gate."

"I must simply bluff it out. I'm a friend of Lieutenant Breul. I've played many parts in my time--not without success."

"Come along then. There's no time to lose."

They hurried back to the dark corner in which Kenneth had interviewed the mechanic. In a few minutes he returned.

"This is a friend of the Herr Lieutenant's," said Kenneth. "I met him just beyond the gate, and he agrees with me that this disgraceful matter must be kept secret. Have you had any success?"

"The fellow is overhauling the Herr Lieutenant's engine in preparation for a start to-morrow. He is the only man at work."

"That's very suspicious," said Kenneth. "Don't you think, Herr Captain, that we had better climb the fence and keep a watch on the man? Who knows what mischief he may be doing?"

"I'll go back to the gate and meet you inside," replied his companion.

"I think you had better come with me, Herr Captain," said Kenneth, "Your presence would guarantee me if any soldier within chanced to suppose that I was intruding."

"Very well," returned the other, with seeming reluctance. "But you also must guarantee me against damage to my clothes."

"That is easily done. This man will throw his coat over the wire."

"Certainly, Herr Policeman," said the mechanic, whom the presence of an officer had quite reassured.

They moved off to a spot beyond the sheds. The mechanic laid his coat upon the wire, and assisted the fugitives to mount. Then he hurried back to the gate, entered the enclosure, and met them near the furthest shed. The whirring of a propeller was audible.

"That's the shed," he said, pointing to the half-open door through which a bright light was streaming. "He's at work there, running the engine."

"Very well," said Kenneth. "You had better get your coat and make yourself scarce. You won't want to appear in this."

"Not I," said the man.

"The Herr Lieutenant will reward you," said Kenneth's companion. He knew German officers too well to tip the man in the English way.

The mechanic slipped away into the darkness. The Englishmen went to the shed. They opened the door and entered boldly. A man was bending over the engine, spanner in hand, adjusting a nut on the carburetter. He had not noticed the opening of the door or the entrance of the strangers. Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder, and looking up, was amazed to hear an officer say, through the noise of the propeller:

"Villain, you are under arrest."

Dumbfounded, he stared stupidly at the officer, and feebly protesting, stood back from the machine. Meanwhile Kenneth had taken a tin of petrol from a cupboard in the corner of the shed, and was filling up the tank. When this was done, he ran his eye rapidly over the monoplane, tested the stays, and finding all in good order, said in English:

"We'll lock this fellow in the cupboard. Then you throw the door open, come back quickly, and get into the seat beside me. The engine is running well, and it will only take a few seconds to get off."

At the first words of English the mechanic shouted with alarm; but his cry was drowned by the whirring of the propeller, and before he could repeat it he was locked into the cupboard. Then the Englishman carried out Kenneth's instructions. As soon as he was in his place, Kenneth threw the engine into gear, and the machine glided forward out of the shed into the dimly lit open space beyond. In a few yards it began to rise. There were shouts of surprise from the few men about the grounds and the mechanics in the beershop outside, scarcely heard by the airmen.

The monoplane soared up and up, unnoticed by the noisy multitudes in the crowded streets below. It was soon out of sight. Suddenly a beam of blinding light flashed upon it from some point high above the ground.

"The searchlight on the cathedral steeple," shouted Kenneth to his companion. "But there's no danger; they'll recognise it as a Taube."

The searchlight followed its course for a few minutes; then was shut off.

"The second trick is to us!" cried the passenger.

But Kenneth did not hear him. His whole attention was given to the machine.

[CHAPTER IV--IN NEUTRAL TERRITORY]

The sky was clear; there was very little wind; and Kenneth realised that the conditions could hardly have been more propitious. For some minutes he was too closely occupied with the mechanism to consider direction. The monoplane was strange to him. His experience of flying had been almost wholly gained in the machines of his friend Remi Pariset, son of the manager of the Antwerp branch of Amory & Finkelstein. Pariset was a lieutenant in the Belgian flying corps, and Kenneth had frequently accompanied him in flights, at first as passenger only, afterwards being allowed to try his hand in the pilot's seat. It had long been his aim to gain the pilot's certificate in England, and, as he had told Frieda Finkelstein, he hoped on the outbreak of war to get a commission in the Royal Flying Corps.

Though he had never before managed a monoplane of the type of that which he had appropriated, he had often watched the German airmen, and after a little uncertainty in his manipulation of the controls, he "felt" the machine, and recognised that it would give him no trouble. Then he had leisure to determine his course.

His first idea had been to make all speed to the Belgian coast, and take ship for England. But recollection of the conversation overheard between Hellwig and his visitor suggested that he might possibly do some preliminary service to the Belgians. A bridge was to be blown up. There could be no doubt that this operation was part of the German plan of campaign, and if it could be frustrated, this would represent so much gain to the defending force. The river spanned by the bridge had not been named, but there was a clue in the fact that the bridge was near a mill. His intention now, therefore, was to alight somewhere in Belgium and communicate his discovery to the military authorities.

In the hurry of departure he was quite oblivious of the direction of his flight. Now that he had time to consider it, he saw by the compass that he was flying towards the north-east. Bringing the monoplane round, he set his course for the south-west, hoping to pick up in half an hour or so the lights of Aix-la-Chapelle. He failed to locate the railway line from Cologne to Aix, and the few scattered points of light in the black expanse below gave him no landmarks.

After a while it occurred to him to switch on the electric light that illuminated the dial of a small clock. It was a quarter to eleven. He must have been flying for nearly half an hour, but neither to right or left nor straight ahead was there any sign of the expected lights of Aix. The country over which he was passing seemed to be hilly; it was possible that the lights of the city were hidden by the shoulder of a hill.

Presently his companion shouted that he heard the sound of big guns away to the left. Kenneth listened, but could hear nothing through the droning whirr of the propeller.

Every now and then he glanced at the clock, the only indication of the distance he had covered. When midnight was past, he felt sure that unless he had completely miscalculated his direction he must by this time have crossed the German frontier. He was thinking of landing and trying to discover where he was, when he caught sight in the starlight of a broad river flowing immediately beneath him from south-west to north-east. This, he had no doubt, was the Meuse, but he knew nothing of the course of the river, and could not determine whether he was in Belgium or Holland. At any rate he was out of Germany.

Dropping a few hundred feet, and seeing below him a broad expanse of fields, apparently flat, he thought it safe to risk a descent. No lights were visible. A rapid swoop brought the machine into a meadow of long grass ripe for hay, and he came lightly to the ground.

"I make you my compliments," said his companion, as they climbed out of their seats. "It is my first aerial voyage, and I am pretty sure that no one has ever tempted the empyrean under such exciting circumstances. But why did you come down? I hoped we should find ourselves at Ostend."

"I'll tell you my reason. I don't know where I am, but we had better camp here till morning, and then explore. Keep a look-out while I glance over the engine; we must be ready to get off again at a moment's notice."

He switched on the light and made a careful examination of the engine; then, rubbing his dirty hands on the grass, he threw himself down beside his companion.

"We've had uncommon luck," he said.

"You under-estimate the personal equation," returned the other. "I consider myself supremely lucky in having met you. Your daring is as great as your ingenuity, Amory. By the way, I have the advantage of you. I have as many names as the chameleon has colours, but the names given me in baptism were Lewis Granger. Now we're quits on that score."

"Thanks. You are a spy, I suppose?"

"Well, that rather opprobrious term would cover me, I presume. A sensitive person might prefer to call himself a secret agent. What's in a name?"

"It's pretty dangerous work, anyhow, and I'm jolly glad you're out of the Germans' clutches. You asked why I came down. It's because I'm a sort of secret agent too."

"You don't say so!"

"Oh, it's quite involuntary. I happened to overhear a conversation a few hours before I was nabbed. I'll tell you about it."

"Wait. I have no credentials. Do you think it wise to confide in a stranger?"

"That's all right," said Kenneth, who had taken an instant liking to the man. "We're in the same boat. What I overheard was a scheme for blowing up a bridge somewhere in Belgium, and I thought that before going on to England I might put the Belgians up to it."

"That's worth a few hours' delay. What you say confirms my own knowledge of the extraordinary minuteness of the German plans. 'Somewhere in Belgium,' you say. You don't know where?"

"No. The name of the river was not mentioned either by Hellwig or----"

"Hellwig! Does his Christian name happen to be Kurt?"

"Yes. Do you know him?"

"I have crossed swords with him--not literally, you understand, though nothing would please me better than a bout with him with the buttons off. I have one or two scores to settle with him. His Christian name would be more truly descriptive with the loss of a T. But how in the world did you come across him? He's not the kind of man I should expect to meet in your company."

"He's the cousin of my poor father's partner, Max Finkelstein. Max gives him a salary; he doesn't earn a penny of it, but Max is a kind-hearted beggar. He wouldn't do it if he knew that Hellwig was a--secret agent."

"Don't mind my feelings, my dear fellow," said Granger, with a laugh. "We're a very mixed lot, I assure you. Do you mind repeating what you overheard, as nearly as you can remember it?"

When the story was told, Granger acknowledged that ignorance of the position of the bridge was an obstacle to forewarning the Belgian authorities.

"Still, they ought to know every inch of the probable theatre of war," he said, "and may spot the place at once."

"We'll see in the morning," said Kenneth. "Meanwhile we had better take watch and watch about during the rest of the night. I don't suppose any one will come by while it's dark, but it's as well to be on the safe side. I'll take first watch."

"Very well. It will be light in less than five hours. I'll snooze for a couple of hours; wake me then."

The night was warm, and Kenneth, in his policeman's coat, suffered no discomfort. His watch passed undisturbed, and he was very sleepy when he roused Granger.

About five o'clock he was wakened from a sound sleep by a nudge from his companion.

"Sorry to disturb you," said Granger, "but there's a group of peasants approaching with scythes. Evidently they are going to mow the meadow."