“Attention!” growled Franz. A few troopers went to the picketed horses. The others lined up. A closed motor-car arrived. Its brilliant head-lights proclaimed the certain fact that the presence of Belgian troops in that locality was not feared. Dalroy recognised this at once, and forthwith dismissed from his mind the last shred of hope.
The chauffeur was a soldier. By his side sat the usual armed escort. Georg galloped up. Oombergen was only a mile and a half distant, and the road through the wood was in such a condition that the car was compelled to travel slowly.
A cloaked staff-officer alighted. The hussars stood stiff as so many ramrods. The new-comer took their salute punctiliously, but his tone in addressing the corporal was far from gracious.
“What’s this unlikely tale you’ve sent in to headquarters?” he demanded harshly.
“I don’t think I’m mistaken, Herr Hauptmann,” was the answer. “I’ve got that English captain and the lady wanted at Visé. They’ve practically admitted it.”
“Where are they?”
“The man is sitting there against the wall. The lady is in the barn.—Stand up, prisoner!”
Franz snatched away the cloak. Dalroy rose to his feet. He was smiling at the ruthlessness of Fate. He was still smiling when Captain von Halwig, of the Prussian Imperial Guard, flashed an electric torch in his face. It was unnecessary, perhaps, to render thus easy the task of recognition. But what did it matter? That lynx of a corporal was sure of his ground, and would refuse to be gainsaid even by a staff-officer and a Guardsman.
Von Halwig’s astonishment seemed to choke back any display of wrath.
“Then it is really you?” he said quietly in English.