He left her waiting for a moment while he ventured within. Then he came to the door and touched Ruth's sleeve.
"I can never know who is waiting for me here," he whispered.
"Your brother?"
"No, no! Some day they will suspect—these Boches—and they will find my little lodge. You know, Fraulein, the pitcher that too often goes to the well is at last broken."
She understood his meaning. At last he would be caught. It was the fate of most spies.
He lit a smoky lamp; but it gave light enough for her to see that the hut was all but empty. It must have been a swineherd's cot at a pre-war date. There was a table, a sawed-off log for a chair, a cupboard hanging against the wall, and a heap of straw in a corner for a bed.
This he pushed aside until he revealed beneath it a box like a coffin, buried in the dirt floor. Its cover was hinged.
From this hidden receptacle he drew forth the complete uniform of a Uhlan lieutenant. "Turn your back for a little, Fraulein," he said softly. "I must make a small change in my toilet."
He removed the muddy rubber suit and the helmet. Likewise, the smock, and baggy trousers, like those worn by Nicko the chocolate peddler. In a trice he clothed himself from top to toe as a Uhlan full lieutenant. He stood before the small glass tacked in the corner and twirled and stiffened his mustache with pomatum. When he turned and strode before Ruth again he was the typical haughty martinet who demanded of the rank and file the goose-step and "right face salute" of the German army.
"For your protection, Fraulein," he said, stooping at the box again, "we must make a subaltern of you."