“This is serious,” she said. “I have lived in Germany long enough to understand that one cannot mix with German girls in the intimacy of school and at their homes without knowing that an attack on England is simply an obsession of their menfolk, and even of the women. They regard it as a certainty in the near future, pretending that if they don’t strike first England will crush them.”
“I wish to Heaven she would!” broke in Colonel Grant emphatically. “In existing conditions this country resembles an unarmed policeman waiting for a burglar to fire at him out of the darkness.”
Mr. Herbert, man of peace that he was, might have voiced a mild disclaimer, had not Elsie stayed him.
“Listen, father,” she said seriously. “Here is proof positive. That chauffeur was a military spy. See what is written across the top of the map: ‘Gutes Wasser; Futter in Fülle; Überfluss von Vieh, Schafen und Pferden. Einzelheiten auf genauen Ortlichkeiten angegeben.’ That means ‘Good water; abundance of fodder; plenty of cattle, sheep, and horses. Details given on exact localities.’ And, just look at the details! Could a child fail to interpret their meaning?”
Elsie’s simile was not far-fetched, yet gray-headed statesmen, though they may have both known and understood, refused to believe. That little road-map, on a scale of one mile to an inch, contained all the information needed by the staff of an invading army.
The moor bore the legend:
“Platz für Lager, leicht verschanzt; beherrscht Hauptstrassen von Whitby und Pickering nach York. Rote Kreise kennzeichnen reichlichen Wasservorrat für Kavallerie und Artillerie.” (Site for camp, easily entrenched. Commands main roads from Whitby and Pickering to York. Red circles show ample water supply for cavalry and artillery.)
Every road bore its classification for the use of troops, showing the width, quality of surface, and gradients. Each bridge was described as “stone” or “iron.” Even cross-country trails were indicated when fordable streams rendered such passage not too difficult.
The little group gazed spellbound at the extraordinarily accurate synopsis of the facilities offered by the placid country of Yorkshire for the devilish purposes of war. Martin, in particular, devoured the entries relating to the moor. On Metcalf’s farm he saw: “Six hundred sheep here,” and at the Broad Ings, “Four hundred sheep, three horses, four cows.” Well he knew who had given the spy those facts. His glowing eyes wandered to the village. A long entry distinguished the White House, and though he knew a good deal of German he was beaten by the opening technical word.
“What is that, Elsie?” he said, and even his father wondered at the hot anger in his utterance.