"I say," he called, "it looks very much as if the Germans are really in the town. Firing has stopped."
"They can't have taken the forts already," cried Pariset. "We'll get back."
On coming to the ground miles to the west, they learnt that Kenneth was right: the Germans had entered the town, lined all the bridges with sentries, taken possession of the railway station, and begun to billet themselves. It was rumoured also that Fort Loncin had fallen, that General Leman was a prisoner, and that the Belgian field army was concentrated about Fort Lantin, north of the town.
The officers of the Flying Corps were deeply dejected. All the efforts of their gallant men seemed to have been thrown away. Their thoughts being centred on Liége alone, they did not as yet realise that the strenuous resistance to the passage of the German army had dislocated the imperial plans, and caused a delay in the march on Paris which was destined to save Europe.
Kenneth and his friend were taking their evening meal in a village inn, the owner of which had announced that next day he intended to pack up and start for Ostend. Only a few peasants were on the premises; all the more well-to-do of the villagers had already joined the stream of refugees.
Suddenly there was a shot outside. The innkeeper dived into his cellar; his guests jumped up, grasping their revolvers. The door opened, and a man in the coarse soiled clothes of a farm labourer entered. On his head was a wide-brimmed slouch hat, and the lower part of his face was concealed by a tangled brown moustache and beard.
"What was that shot?" asked Pariset, in Walloon, and gasped with amazement when the stranger, taking off his hat, said in perfect English:
"Here is a part of its track."
He pointed to two bullet-holes, one on each side of the crown of the hat.
"Granger!" exclaimed Kenneth.