He threw on his clothes and crept to the garden.
Ja, he was right. The light came from the kitchen of the next house.
"I shall wait," said Hans, "and see what happens."
It was bitterly cold. The wind cut like a knife, the trees and bushes cracked their icy dress; but Hans had a fur cap, and he drew it well over his ears.
He had been in the cold for a half hour when a sound made him start.
It was the creaking of the kitchen door of the next house. The light vanished, and with careful steps a dark figure moved across the snow.
Hans nodded.
"You go, I follow," he thought.
He was a spy himself. The man in the snow, he knew, was another.
The man left the garden. Hans left his.