Sitting up, Malcolm bent forward and searched the man who was pinning him down. He was wrong in his surmise. It was not Captain Nicholson, but one of the riflemen. In one of his pockets Carr found a squashed box containing three or four precious matches.
The first match fizzled and went out.
"Damp, like everything else except my throat!" muttered M'Turk. "I could drink half a gallon at one go. Try again, chum."
At the second attempt the flickering light struggled bravely for the mastery, then out it went.
"Two more," announced Malcolm.
"Hold on," ejaculated his companion. "I've a paper. I'll tear off a piece, and you can set it alight--if your matches aren't all duds!"
This time the attempt was successful. In the glare of the burning newspaper Malcolm made the astonishing discovery that Grouser Joliffe was lying across his legs, while nearer the room in which the German staff officers had been was Dick Selwyn, leaning against the wainscot and breathing stertorously. The faces of both men were black with smoke and dirt. There were no signs of Captain Nicholson or M'Kane.
"Old Grouser, by gum!" exclaimed M'Turk. "How in the name of everything did he get there?"
"Give it up!" replied Malcolm, as he made his way to Selwyn's side. "There are a lot of things that want explaining in this hole."
"Say what?" prompted his companion, tearing a fresh strip from the newspaper and rolling it into a rough-and-ready torch.