Читать книгу The Return of Grey Shadow - George E. Rochester - Страница 7

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The hour was midnight. Intense, bitter, freezing cold held the German town of Hamburg in icy grip. Few were astir and scarce a sound disturbed the stillness of the darkened streets save the tramp, tramp of some naval or military patrol.

Silence, deathly and profound, enwrapped the grim, gaunt bulk of the vast military prison where, in the darkness of the narrow-stone-floored death cell, a man—an Englishman—lay shivering on his low plank bed.

The man was Captain Weston, of the British Secret Service. He had been sentenced to death as a spy, and was to be shot at dawn.

He was not afraid to die, for the grim phantom of Death stalks always by the side of a spy. It was this waiting which was the worst; this waiting whilst slowly, wearily, the interminable hours of the night dragged by until the little square of barred window, high in the wall, should grey with the first faint light of dawn.

If only he could sleep, he thought. But he could not, for the icy chill of the death cell was like that of the tomb, and there was no warmth in the single, threadbare blanket with which he’d been provided.

So with hands clasped behind his head, he lay staring up into the darkness, listening to the muffled tramp, tramp of the sentry out in the corridor, the heavily booted tread now receding, now returning as the man marched to and fro on his beat.

There wasn’t an earthly chance of escape. The prisoner knew that, for the sentries on duty had been doubled, and extra guards had been drafted to the prison.

“But I wish the whole thing was over!” burst out Colonel Prag, governor of the prison, as he paced the floor of a warm and well-furnished room in his private quarters. “It’ll be a relief to me when this night has passed and the dawn has come!”

Captain August von Zollern, his handsome, elegantly uniformed aide-de-camp, adjusted his monocle and stared at him in surprise.

“But what are you afraid of, sir?” he asked.

“Afraid of?” repeated Colonel Prag furiously, his florid features crimsoning to a deeper hue. “Need you ask what I’m afraid of, you fool? I’m afraid of losing the prisoner—of having him snatched from under my very nose by that cursed Scott of the British Secret Squadron, who is believed to be here in Hamburg!”

Captain August von Zollern laughed softly, almost contemptuously.

“Oh, come, sir, that’s impossible,” he chided. “We’ve combed and recombed Hamburg for Scott, and have found not the slightest sign of him. He’s obviously fled. And even if he hasn’t what could he—one man—do? Absolutely nothing at all. He couldn’t get Weston out of this prison unless he arrived with half the British Army at his back.”

“Yes, that’s what you say,” growled the governor. “But he’s got spies out of the prison before—absolutely spirited them away like some confounded modern Scarlet Pimpernel. Yes, that’s what he is. A wraith, a phantom, a Will o’ the Wisp. He’s as bad as that other cursed British spy, Grey Shadow. There’s a pair of ’em, and it’s about time the blundering imbeciles of our Intelligence Service ran ’em to earth!”

He resumed his angry pacing of the floor, then suddenly he halted and swung again on Von Zollern.

“I’m being held personally responsible by our High Command for the safe custody and execution of the prisoner,” he barked. “To that end I’ve done everything it’s humanly possible to do. I’ve filled the prison with soldiers. I’ve doubled all the guards, and I’m having the prisoner kept under constant observation throughout the night. Is there anything else I can do?”

“No, sir, nothing,” agreed the aide-de-camp.

“That’s what I say!” grated Colonel Prag, picking up his grey, military cloak. “But, all the same, I wish it was dawn and the whole cursed business safely over. Come on, we’ll have a look at the fellow and satisfy ourselves that everything’s quiet.”

❆❆❆❆❆

In a dirty basement kitchen situated in a mean and narrow street some distance from the prison, sat a strange trio. One was an old, old crone, seamed and wrinkled of face, and with a dirty shawl drawn over her scant and wispy grey hair. She was seated on a stool by the fire, puffing away at a blackened pipe the while she talked to her two companions—a ragged, crippled youth with an iron-shod foot, and a slim bare-legged girl in boy’s ragged clothing.

The crone was talking in a low and earnest voice, and appeared to be giving her two hearers certain instructions.

“Now, you quite understand what you’re to do?” she mumbled at length.

“Yes,” answered her two companions.

“Very well, I’ll get off,” said the crone, rising and depositing her pipe on a shelf by the fire. “If all goes well I’ll join you before the dawn.”

Drawing her rags and shawl closer about her against the bitter chill of the night, she quitted the kitchen. Ascending the area steps to the street, she turned her shuffling gait in the direction of the prison.

Waiting until she had gone, the crippled youth pulled on a ragged overcoat. Then, accompanied by the bare-legged girl, he let himself out by a rear door and mounted some stone steps to a yard where stood a handcart with a few empty sacks thrown on to it.

Pushing the handcart out of the yard, the pair set off along a dark and narrow back-street, out of which they turned into a wider thoroughfare, deserted at that late hour.

They trundled the handcart briskly along, the girl blowing on her hands and shivering in the bitter cold, the crippled youth limping sturdily at the shafts.

As they turned into another street they were stopped by a greatcoated, military patrol, the sergeant of which said harshly:

“Who are you and where are you going at this hour?”

“My name is Hans Schmidt, Herr Sergeant, and this is my little brother Kaspar,” answered the cripple. “We go to Kupter Farm for the bad potatoes which our mother makes into bread to sell.”

Bad potatoes to be made into bread. Yes, to such an extremity was Germany reduced during those dark days of war owing to the remorseless blockade of her coasts by the British Navy, whereby not a solitary food ship could slip into any German port.

To the potatoes was added bran and sawdust for the making of black bread which was fast becoming the staple diet of the country.

“Show me your papers!” ordered the sergeant.

Obediently the cripple produced his identification papers. As he had said, they described him as being one, Hans Schmidt, exempt from service with the Colours owing to incurable lameness.

“On your way, then!” grunted the sergeant, handing back the papers after he had examined them. “Here, one moment. You”—to the bare-legged girl—“have you no boots?”

“No, Herr Sergeant,” she said humbly.

“Donner, no boots in this weather!” exclaimed the sergeant. “You must be frozen. Indeed, you look it. Here, take this!”

He rummaged in a pocket beneath his greatcoat and produced a coin, which he pressed into the girl’s hand. Then, dismissing the latter’s stammered thanks with a wave of his mittened hand, he barked out an order to the patrol, and they tramped on along the iron-hard road, leaving the cripple and the girl to trundle their handcart away into the darkness.

The old crone reached the great iron gates of the prison yard, outside of which two greatcoated sentries armed with rifles and fixed bayonets were pacing.

“How do I get in?” she demanded, planting herself full in the path of one of the sentries and peering up into his face.

“In?” repeated the sentry angrily. “In where, you old fool? You be off, you miserable old bag of bones!”

He thrust her roughly aside, and would have continued with his pacing had not the hag seized him by the arm.

“I want to go in!” she screeched. “I want to see the gentleman in charge. I’ve got something for him!”

“You’ll get something you’re not wanting if you don’t clear out of here!” retorted the sentry savagely, trying to wrench his arm free from the crone’s claw-like grip. “Go on, be off with you, or I’ll have you arrested!”

“It’s you who’ll be arrested if you don’t tell me how I can get in!” shrilled the crone. “I tell you I’ve got something for the gentleman in charge—something which old Hiob Spritz says is important!”

“What’s the trouble?” demanded the other sentry, coming quickly up. “What’s the matter with her?”

“The crazy old fool says she wants to get into the prison,” explained the first sentry wrathfully. “She says she wants to see the gentleman in charge. I suppose she means Colonel Prag, the governor!”

“That’s him!” shrilled the hag triumphantly. “That’s who I want to see. Old Hiob Spritz told me to be sure to ask for Colonel Prag, the governor of the prison. Old Hiob said I was to be certain I saw nobody except the governor, so’s I can tell him what I know and give him what I’ve brought him!”

“What have you brought him?” demanded the second sentry angrily.

“Hah! I’d be likely to tell such a one as you, wouldn’t I, and have it blabbed all over Hamburg by your long tongue?” screeched the hag. “It’s quite plain to me that neither you nor this other, stupid, staring donkey know who I am. Well, I’ll tell you. I’m Hanna Scheffel—old Hanna Scheffel, who was looking after Herr Stendal whose shop was burned down in the Nordstrasse the night the Englander spy escaped from there.”

The two sentries exchanged startled glances. It was in the little shop of a certain Herr Stendal that Captain John Scott, the much-wanted Englander spy, had been trapped a few nights ago. But a mysterious fire had suddenly broken out and demolished the shop, and the Englander spy had escaped in the excitement.

And now this wretched old hag was claiming to have been Herr Stendal’s housekeeper, and she was demanding to see the governor of the prison. It might be rash, indeed, thought the sentries, and might have serious consequences for themselves to drive her away without first ascertaining her business.

“Look here, Frau Scheffel,” said one of them civilly, “what exactly do you wish to see the governor about?”

“About the Englander spies,” returned the crone promptly. “About the one who escaped and about the one who lies in the prison here.”

“You have news of the one who escaped?” demanded the sentry excitedly.

“Yes, but only for Colonel Prag, the governor,” answered the hag grimly. “Old Hiob Spritz, who lives in the same building as me and who used to be a schoolmaster before he came down in the world, told me to open my lips to nobody but the governor, and I’m not going to. So take me to him!”

The two sentries conversed for a moment in low, earnest voices. Then one of them turned to the woman and said:

“You had better see the sergeant of the guard. But I’m warning you, if you’re telling lies or if this is some stupid joke, you will get into very serious trouble. You will be put in prison or you may even be shot!”

“Pah! Have done with your foolish talk else it’ll be you who’ll be getting shot!” snarled the hag. “And I don’t want to see any sergeant. It’s Colonel Prag, the governor himself, who I’m here to see!”

“All in good time, my old ——,” grinned the sentry. “This way!”

He escorted her to the little wicket gate in the big, iron gates. Thrusting it open, he bawled for the sergeant of the guard, who emerged hurriedly and angrily from the near-by guard-room.

“Stop that row, hang you!” grated the sergeant. “What the blazes d’you want?”

The sentry explained whilst the sergeant stood glaring at the be-shawled old hag in the darkness.

“See the governor!” exploded the sergeant before the sentry had concluded. “Donner und blitzen! I’ve never heard of such a thing. Off with you, you mad old harridan, before I hand you over to the police. And as for you,” he went on furiously, swinging on the sentry, “I’ll see you get a dose of punishment cells for this. Wasting my time——”

“He’s not wasting your time, you stupid ape!” screamed the crone, her wrinkled old face convulsed with fury. “I tell you I’m here to see the governor about the Englander spies, and whoever stops me does so at their peril, as you’ll find out to your cost. I’ve got to see him, and I’ve got to see him now, because every minute is precious. Let me pass, curse you!”

She drove in through the wicket gate, a vicious fluttering bundle of rags, and would have passed the sergeant had not that furious individual gripped her by the arm.

“Let me go, rot you!” she screamed, struggling desperately in the sergeant’s grasp. “Are you a friend of the Englanders that you’re frightened to let me tell the governor what I know? Let me go, you traitor—let me go, you dirty, treacherous dog——”

“Stop it, will you, stop it?” grated the sergeant savagely, his face crimson with rage as the high-pitched, screaming voice of the hag brought the rest of the guard pouring out of the guard-room. “If you don’t stop it, I’ll strangle you!”

But the hag didn’t stop it. On the contrary, she fought like a mad woman, screaming and yelling and creating such a din that the officer of the guard came running angrily to the scene followed by a couple of non-commissioned officers.

“What is it?” shouted the officer. “What in the name of goodness is going on here? Stop it, d’you hear—stop it at once!”

The presence of the officer quietened the hag, and having got her hustled into the guard-room the officer listened to her story.

“You say you are the woman who looked after Stendal in whose shop the Englander spy was trapped,” said the officer, when the woman had concluded, “and you say you have news for the governor’s ears alone, and, also, that you have something to give him?”

“Yes, that’s it!” screeched the hag. “My word, what it is to find somebody with sense at last. You’ll take me to the governor, sir, won’t you?”

“No, I cannot!” replied the officer. “The governor will refuse to see you or anyone at this hour of the night. But if you will tell me what your message is, I will see that it is conveyed to him without delay!”

That started the crone off again.

“Rot you, you’re no better than the others!” she shrieked, her bleary eyes aflame with passion. “I tell you, what I have to say is for the ears of the governor alone, and for no one else’s. Every minute you waste here the Englander spy may be getting farther away, and it is you who are to blame—you and these other stupid fools!”

The officer glared at her, rage and indecision in his eyes. It might well be, he reflected savagely, that the stubborn old harridan knew something of vital importance which she was determined to divulge to no one but Colonel Prag himself.

If such was the case, woe betide anyone subsequently held responsible for preventing her seeing the governor. On the other hand, however, her alleged information might easily turn out to be absolutely valueless, and, in that event, the governor would certainly vent his wrath on the idiot responsible for admitting her to his presence.

It was the devil’s own problem to solve, thought the officer, as he stood glaring at her. Should he take her to the governor, or shouldn’t he? He decided to consult some superior officer.

“Wait here!” he rapped, and departed at a run.

“Hah! That’s better!” exclaimed the hag triumphantly. “I suppose he’s gone to fetch the governor!” Subsiding on to a stool by the red-hot stove, she spread out her hands to the warmth. “A nice lot of gentlemen you are,” she grumbled. “Haven’t you got a mug of hot coffee to offer a lady?”

Some of the guards laughed, and one of them picked up a mug in order to pour her out some of the acorn coffee which was simmering in a pan on the stove. But the sergeant stopped him with an oath.

“You’ll get no coffee here,” he said furiously to the woman. “What you will get will be a few years in prison!”

“Ah, is that so?” spat the hag. “No, my fine sergeant, it’ll be you who’ll go to prison and me who’ll be riding round in my fine carriage and pair, you’ll see!”

A sudden quick tread of feet cut in on her words, and Captain August von Zollern strode into the guard-room followed by the officer of the guard. At sight of him the sergeant and the soldiers came rigidly to attention and stood like ramrods.

“Is this the woman?” snapped Von Zollern, staring at the bundle of rags by the stove.

“Yes, sir!” said the officer of the guard.

Von Zollern addressed himself to the hag.

“I understand you wish to see Colonel Prag, the governor of the prison,” he said curtly. “I am the colonel’s aide-de-camp, and will take your message!”

“That you’ll not!” snapped the hag. “I’m seeing the governor or nobody.”

“But my dear, good woman,” began Von Zollern, “you can’t possibly see the governor at this time of night——”

“Can I not?” snarled the hag, getting swiftly to her feet. “Then I’ll go. It seems as though this place is full of traitors who care nothing whether Englander spies are caught or not!” She spat viciously on the floor and her voice rose to a scream: “There, that’s what I think of you—of all of you. You’ve got safe jobs here and that’s all that matters to you. It’d do the lot of you a power of good to be sent out yonder to the trenches along with the other poor lads who’re dying out there——”

Von Zollern seized her by the arm.

“Stop it!” he said sternly. “Come I will take you to Colonel Prag. But I warn you, if you are wasting our time you will bitterly regret it!”

❆❆❆❆❆

Colonel Prag was standing with his back to the cheerful fire in his room when Von Zollern led the hag into his presence a few minutes later.

“The woman refuses to speak to anyone but you, sir,” reported Von Zollern.

The prison governor thrust forward his head and stared angrily at the crone.

“Well, what d’you want to say?” he grated.

“Are you Colonel Prag?” she demanded.

“I am, confound you!”

The woman nodded as though satisfied, and fumbling in the voluminous folds of her ragged skirt, she produced a small, red-backed notebook which she handed to the governor.

“There you are, sir, that’s for you!” she said. “When I worked for Herr Stendal in the Nordstrasse before his shop was burned down a few nights ago, he used to give me food to take home. Among the food was a stale loaf of black bread. I was cutting the loaf open to-night when I found that little book hidden inside. Old Hiob Spritz, who was once a schoolmaster and a very clever man, said I must bring the book at once to you. He said it had codes in it, whatever that might mean, sir!”

Colonel Prag seemed scarcely to be listening. He had opened the little notebook and was staring excitedly at the neatly written, but seemingly meaningless rows of hieroglyphics inside.

“Mein geist, Zollern, but look at this!” he ejaculated. “They are codes used by Weston. They must be. The shop was occupied by Weston before we arrested him as a spy. The cunning hound has had the book well hidden!”

Von Zollern was examining the book over his chief’s shoulder.

“Yes, they’re codes, sir, undoubtedly,” he agreed. “But very elaborate and difficult ones by the look of them. I wonder what our cipher experts will make of them?”

Colonel Prag caught the note of doubt in his aide-de-camp’s voice.

“You mean, you think these secret codes may baffle them,” he said harshly. “Yes, I agree there is that possibility. It will not be the first time these cursed British codes have beaten our so-called experts. I wonder——”

Abruptly he broke off, staring ahead of him with hard and glittering eyes. Then, as though becoming suddenly conscious again of the hag’s presence in the room, he looked at her and rapped:

“You have done very well indeed in bringing this book to me. I am very pleased with you, Is there anything else you have to tell me?”

“No, sir, except that old Hiob Spritz said the book might help you to catch other Englander spies in Germany,” replied the crone. “He did not know, of course, because he could not read the writing in the book, but he said you gentlemen would be able to read it and that was why I was to bring it to you at once, which I have done——”

“Yes, yes!” cut in the Governor testily. “You have acted like a true daughter of the Fatherland, and I will see that you are handsomely rewarded. If you have nothing further to tell me you can now go. Call back at the prison to-morrow and there will be some money waiting for you. Zollern, get rid of her!”

Escorting her from the room, Von Zollern handed the hag over to a guard outside with instructions to see her off the premises. Then he returned quickly to the room where Colonel Prag was still intently examining the book.

“Zollern,” said the colonel harshly, “when Weston dies at dawn the secret of these codes may die with him. It is a poor chance, I know, of learning their secret, but I am going to question him.”

“You’ll get nothing out of him!” said Von Zollern confidently.

“Perhaps not!” returned his chief. “But in any case it is my duty to question him. When I hand this notebook over to the cipher experts of our Intelligence Bureau, the first question put to me will be if I interrogated Weston about the codes. If I answer that I did not, I will find myself in serious trouble. Have him brought here, please!”

“Very good, Herr Colonel!” said Von Zollern, and withdrew.

Left to himself, Colonel Prag continued to study the little notebook, a faint smile on his lips. The minutes passed, then came a tramp of heavily booted feet in the corridor outside, the door opened, and Von Zollern marched into the room, followed by Captain Weston in the midst of an escort of four armed soldiers and a sergeant.

“Captain Weston,” said Colonel Prag, when the prisoner was confronting him, “have you ever seen this book before?”

He handed Weston the notebook. Taking it, the prisoner looked at it curiously, then opened it at the first page. As he stared at the neatly written hieroglyphics, his fingers tautened and his face became strangely set.

“I am waiting for your answer, Captain Weston,” said the prison governor harshly. “Have you ever seen that book before?”

“Yes,” faltered Weston. “Yes—it is mine!”

With a triumphant glance at Von Zollern, Colonel Prag turned again to the prisoner.

“You agree that the book contains secret codes used by you whilst you were engaged in British espionage work in this country?” he demanded.

“Yes,” admitted Weston unsteadily.

For a long moment Colonel Prag studied him intently, then he said:

“Listen to me, Captain Weston. I’m afraid it lies in my power to promise you little. But in return for your divulging the key to these codes, it is possible that the German High Command may be persuaded to take a more lenient view of your activities and commute the death sentence to one of a long term of imprisonment in some fortress. What does lie in my power, however, is to postpone your execution whilst your case is being reconsidered, and this I will do in return for the key to the codes.”

Weston looked at him, hope dawning in his haggard eyes.

“D’you mean that?” he cried hoarsely.

“Yes, I mean it,” answered Colonel Prag.

Von Zollern said nothing, but his face expressed both anger and contempt—anger at Colonel Prag whom he knew was lying, and contempt for Weston who was rising eagerly to the bait.

“If only I could be sure you meant it?” cried Weston desperately. “You don’t know what it’s been like there in the death cell—the waiting—the counting of the hours. Listen, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Cancel my death sentence, and I’ll not only give you the key to these codes, but to every code used by British spies in Germany!”

Colonel Prag’s eyes gleamed.

“You can do that?” he rapped.

“Yes, I can do it!” cried Weston, his face working tremulously. “But I’ll only do it on condition that the death sentence is commuted!”

“The death sentence will certainly be commuted in return for the key to every British secret code!” answered Colonel Prag harshly. “I can give you my word on that as an officer and a gentleman. I pledge you my honour you will not be shot if you will divulge this information!”

“Then I’ll divulge it!” gasped Weston. “I’ll take you now to where the papers containing these code keys are hidden!”

“Take us?” repeated Colonel Prag questioningly, his eyes hardening.

“Yes, you know that big, tumbledown house which stands alone in Atem Wood three kilometres outside the town,” babbled Weston. “The house has long been deserted, and I used it as a base for my activities before I moved to the little shop in the Nordstrasse. The papers are hidden there in a sealed cylinder behind the stonework. You would never find them, because no one but myself knows the stone behind which they are hidden.”

“But cannot you describe the exact location of this particular stone?” demanded Colonel Prag harshly.

“No, I cannot,” cried Weston. “The papers are hidden down in the cellars, and it would be impossible, even on a plan, for me to pin-point the exact stone behind which I placed them.”

Colonel Prag stood in silence a moment, his eyes on the haggard-faced prisoner.

“Very well,” he said abruptly, “we will proceed now to the house in Atem Wood and find these papers. But I warn you, if you are lying——”

“What would I gain by lying?” broke in Weston desperately. “I’m a doomed man now, and my only chance of life is to produce the papers!”

“That is quite correct!” remarked Colonel Prag icily, making up his mind.

He turned to Von Zollern and rapped out an order, the result being that some fifteen minutes later two powerful automobiles turned out through the prison gates and roared along the dark and deserted streets towards the outskirts of the town.

Colonel Prag was taking no chances of the prisoner escaping, and both cars were packed with armed guards, Colonel Prag, Von Zollern, and the handcuffed Captain Weston, being the only officers.

Reaching Atem Wood, three kilometres beyond the town, the cars were pulled up and the whole party proceeded towards the lonely and long deserted house which Weston had confessed to being his previous base.

Von Zollern led the way, drawn revolver in one hand and electric torch in the other. He was followed by the grey-cloaked Colonel Prag, then came the handcuffed Weston in the midst of his guards.

The house had once been a fine old building comparable with a large English manor house, but it had long since fallen into a state of utter ruin and decay.

Reaching the house, Weston perforce had to act as guide, and he directed that Von Zollern should lead the way down a dark flight of stone steps which wound down into the cellars.

With the beam of Von Zollern’s torch splitting the darkness, the whole party descended the steps to where the cellars stretched away in front of them like some great, arched vault.

“Where are the papers hidden?” demanded Colonel Prag, drawing his military cloak closer about him, for the damp and bitter chill of the cellars was as icy as that of the tomb.

“Straight on,” said Western unsteadily. “If Captain von Zollern will move straight on we will come to them!”

At the head of the soldiers and their prisoner, Von Zollern moved on into the cellars, the golden beam of his torch shining on the moist stone pillars and dripping arched roof-work.

In the pall-like darkness at the rear of the party, not one of them saw the figure of a man dressed as a German soldier glide silently from behind a pillar and tread softly in their wake.

What they did see, however, and what brought them up in astonishment and vague alarm, was a tiny lurid flame which suddenly glowed into life on the cellar floor away in front of them.

Sizzling and spluttering, the tiny flame moved swiftly across the damp, stone floor; then came a frenzied yell of realisation from Von Zollern:

“Back—back, you fools! We’re trapped!”

With the words there came a sudden reverberating roar, accompanied by a terrific, blinding sheet of brilliant flame which illuminated every part of the cellars.

Shouting and yelling in panic, the soldiers broke and fled, stampeding wildly for the cellar steps before the roof should collapse upon them.

In the terror of the moment officers, discipline, and prisoner were forgotten, for it was every man for himself. Even Von Zollern and Colonel Prag ran. Pushing and jostling amongst their men, they blundered up the cellar steps and out into the blackness of the night.

“We were lured into a trap—a cursed trap!” bellowed Colonel Prag in fury. “Where’s Weston? Where is the hound? Mein blut, but he’ll find shooting’s too good for him after this! Bring him to me, the treacherous dog!”

The frightened soldiers were jabbering frenziedly amongst themselves. It was a terrified sergeant who reported the gist of their excited talk to Colonel Prag.

“The prisoner is not here, sir,” he stammered. “He’s gone!”

“Gone?” screamed Colonel Prag. “What the blazes d’you mean, you blundering fool—gone?”

“I—I mean he’s gone!” stammered the wretched sergeant. “He’s not here!”

❆❆❆❆❆

On the other side of the wood a car was already speeding rapidly away into the night. At the wheel sat Grey Shadow, with Scotty at his side. In the rear, a bare-legged girl in boy’s clothing was filing industriously at Captain Weston’s handcuffs.

“But how in the name of goodness did you do it?” gulped Weston.

“It was merely a matter of co-operation between the four of us,” answered Grey Shadow over his shoulder. “Scotty and Marie and I placed a keg of powdered magnesium thinly impregnated with gunpowder down in the cellars yesterday and laid a trail of gunpowder to the keg——”

“Yes, but where did you get the magnesium and gunpowder from?” interjected Weston.

“From the cache of explosives which you were using for sabotage work down at the docks before you were arrested,” replied Grey Shadow. “The cache was in the wood, as you know, and the Germans never even suspected its presence.”

“Yes, I understand,” said Weston. “Go on.”

“Well, Scotty and Marie slipped out of Hamburg to-night pushing a handcart, in case they were stopped and questioned,” proceeded Grey Shadow. “On reaching the deserted house, Scotty changed into German uniform. He and Marie were hiding down in the cellars when you arrived with your escort. It was Marie who fired the train. By that time Scotty was mingling with the soldiers. The moment the explosion took place—quite a harmless explosion, really—Scotty grabbed you by the arm, as you know.”

“Yes; and muttered in English, ‘This way, Weston!’ ” took up the released prisoner. “I couldn’t believe my ears when I heard those words, but after reading your message to me in that code notebook I was expecting something of the sort to happen, so I shot off into the darkness with him without hesitation.”

“And he got you out of the cellars through the hole we’d knocked and dug through the farthest wall,” laughed Grey Shadow. “Well, that’s about all there is to it, Weston!”

“What—d’you mean—all?” demanded Weston. “I still don’t know how you got that code notebook into Prag’s hands!”

“I took it to him in the same hag’s guise as I used when I was working for Stendal,” explained Grey Shadow. “I told him I’d just found it. I knew perfectly well he’d show it to you. The code I used was the one you and I made up ourselves—that queer mixture of Arabic characters and shorthand. I knew you’d be able to read my message to you the moment Prag showed you the book. And you carried out my instructions, which were to pretend to break down and offer to show Prag where secret papers were hidden down in the cellar of that house back there. If Prag had put off his search of the cellars until daylight, it wouldn’t have mattered. We’d still have been waiting for you.”

“Yes, but where did you get this car?” demanded Weston, who was still mystified.

“From my own garage, where I’ve hidden my crone’s rags,” replied Grey Shadow. “Amongst other things, Weston, I’m supposed to be a commercial traveller who’s been invalided out of the German Army with war wounds. Hence the car.”

“You’re certainly a man of many parts,” said Weston appreciatively.

Grey Shadow laughed, and pressing on the accelerator, took the car roaring on into the night. They were still in deadly peril, as each one of them knew, for before another hour had passed a cordon of police and military would have been thrown round the whole district.