"Great Scott! Did you see that?" shouted Dennis.
"Yus, not 'arf!" And he and Hawke jumped off the mark together, racing neck and neck out into the open, heedless of a withering fire from some machine-guns that began to play on the slope.
The German cowered flat as a pancake, his head turned sideways, watching them as they came.
"Had they seen?" he thought, "or was this some senseless freak of those mad-brained English?"
The next moment any doubt in his mind vanished, all the blood left the scoundrel's face, and, starting to his knees, he covered the foremost figure with his weapon. Twice he raised it, staring hard, and a feeling as of an electric shock passed through Dennis Dashwood as the pair recognised each other.
Then they fired their revolvers simultaneously, but the cylinders of both were empty, and into the livid face of Von Dussel there came an extraordinary look of mingled doubt and terror.
"But you are dead!" he gasped, as the memory of the mined brewery came back to him.
"Not the first mistake you have made, you infernal scoundrel!" shouted Dennis; and clubbing his revolver, he smote him fair and square between the eyes, dropping the spy like a stone.
"Stop, Hawke, I want that man alive!" panted the avenger, "he's got enough to go on with"; and, checking the remorseless bayonet with which Hawke was about to run him through, Dennis turned and knelt beside the body of his chum.
Little Wetherby was lying on his side, but his eyes brightened as he saw who it was.