I was aroused by a clod of earth striking at my feet. Then from above, I heard a sound of scrambling. The next moment a young man, with a final slide down the crumbling wall, alighted at my feet. It was Philip Wickson, though I did not know him at the time. He looked at me coolly and uttered a low whistle of surprise.
“Well,” he said; and the next moment, cap in hand, he was saying, “I beg your pardon. I did not expect to find any one here.”
I was not so cool. I was still a tyro so far as concerned knowing how to behave in desperate circumstances. Later on, when I was an international spy, I should have been less clumsy, I am sure. As it was, I scrambled to my feet and cried out the danger call.
“Why did you do that?” he asked, looking at me searchingly.
It was evident that he had no suspicion of our presence when making the descent. I recognized this with relief.
“For what purpose do you think I did it?” I countered. I was indeed clumsy in those days.
“I don’t know,” he answered, shaking his head. “Unless you’ve got friends about. Anyway, you’ve got some explanations to make. I don’t like the look of it. You are trespassing. This is my father’s land, and—”
But at that moment, Biedenbach, ever polite and gentle, said from behind him in a low voice, “Hands up, my young sir.”
Young Wickson put his hands up first, then turned to confront Biedenbach, who held a thirty-thirty automatic rifle on him. Wickson was imperturbable.
“Oh, ho,” he said, “a nest of revolutionists—and quite a hornet’s nest it would seem. Well, you won’t abide here long, I can tell you.”