“Perhaps not. She avoided Berlin. But you have heard of her.”
Again was the former spy guilty of stupidity. He set his lips like a steel trap. Doubtful what to say, he said nothing.
Martin nodded to Sergeant Mason.
“Just go through the major’s pockets,” he said. “You know what we want.”
Mason’s knowledge was precise. He left the prisoner his money, watch, pipe, and handkerchief. The remainder of his belongings were made up into a bundle. Highly valuable treasure-trove was contained therein, the major having in his possession a detailed list of all arms in the Fifty-seventh Brandenburg Division and a sketch of the trench system which it occupied. A glance showed Martin that the Fifty-seventh Division lay directly in front.
He turned to the subaltern whose dugout he was using and who had witnessed the foregoing scene in silence.
“Can you send a corporal’s guard to D.H.Q. in charge of the prisoner?” he asked.
“Certainly,” said the other. “By the way, come outside and have a cigarette.”
Cigarettes are not lighted in front-line communication trenches after nightfall—not by officers, at any rate—nor do second lieutenants address staff captains so flippantly. Martin read something more into the invitation than appeared on the surface. He was right.