“What is your name?” he inquired.
“Freiherr Georg von Struben, major of artillery,” was the somewhat grandiloquent answer.
“Do you speak English?”
“Nod mooch.”
Some long dormant chord of memory vibrated in Martin’s brain. He held the torch closer. Von Struben was a tall, well-built Prussian. He smiled, meaning probably to make the best of a bad business. His face was soiled with clay and perspiration. A streak of blood had run from a slight cut over an eyebrow. But the white scar of an old saber wound, the outcome of a duelling bout in some university burschenschaft, creased down its center when he smiled. Then Martin knew.
“Fritz Bauer!” he cried.
The German started, though he recovered his self-control promptly.
“You haf nod unterstant,” he said. “I dell you my nem——”
“That’s all right, Fritz,” laughed Martin. “You spoke good English when you were in Elmsdale. You could fool me then into giving you valuable information for your precious scheme of invading England. Now it’s my turn! Have you forgotten Martin Bolland?”
Blank incredulity yielded to evident fear in the other man’s eyes. With obvious effort, he stiffened.