“That is a serious accusation—a terrible accusation,” said the major gravely. “If it is true, it means death to this man. If it is false, it means severe punishment for you. Are you sure of your facts?”
“Perfectly sure, sir,” affirmed Tom. “It was after I had been captured by the Germans and was trying to escape. I was hiding up a tree in the woods. Rabig—you know Rabig, sir, the man we’re holding for court-martial?”—the major nodded—“Rabig came into the woods and sat down under the tree I was hiding in. This man”—pointing to the accused—“met him there and they talked for a long time together. Money passed between them. Then this man went away and I dropped down on Rabig, overpowered him, took away the pass the German had given him—and got back to our own lines.”
The alleged German here interposed.
“Is it possible,” he exclaimed, “that you attach any weight to a mere resemblance, admitting that this fellow is telling what he believes to be true? There may be a thousand men in either army that look like me. Let us have done with this nonsense.”
There seemed some force in this and the major looked inquiringly at Tom.
“There’s no mistake, sir,” persisted Tom. “I’d know his face among a thousand. But there’s one thing that will prove I’m right and that even he himself can’t deny. The man who was talking to Rabig had the end of the third finger missing from his left hand.”
Every eye went to the stranger’s left hand. It was encased in a riding glove and there was nothing to indicate that it was maimed.
“Will you kindly remove your glove?” asked the major with ominous politeness.
“I refuse,” objected the strange officer hotly. “This is an indignity. I shall report these proceedings at headquarters.”
“Remove your glove,” demanded the major sternly, and at the same time the sergeant and his detachment crowded about the accused, ready for instant action.