"Wish they'd get a move on," muttered Athol, after keeping in a prone position for nearly twenty minutes. The night was bitterly cold. His limbs were beginning to feel stiff and cramped in contact with the damp ground.
A sharp tug at his leather leggings almost caused the lad to utter an exclamation of alarm. For the minute he imagined that he was again in the grip of the Hun, until, turning his head, he saw a huge rat scampering off. The officers heard the sound, too, for they both looked intently in the direction of the startled rodent. Then one moved a few paces towards the centre of the road.
"They are coming, von Bohmer," he remarked.
"And about time," grumbled the other. "And, even now, we do not know whether von Secker will venture. If ever a man blunders through excessive caution it is friend Karl."
Von Secker—Karl. The names seemed familiar to the listening British subaltern. Yes, by Jove he had it: Karl von Secker, the spy and employer of the luckless Sigismund Selighoffer, and the fellow who had made off with Desmond Blake's plans of the secret battleplane.
Athol, with his ear almost in contact with the ground, could now distinctly hear the rumble of cart wheels and the sharp clatter of a horse's hoofs. A little later the vehicle pulled up, and a man dressed as a Dutch peasant threw the reins across the animal's neck and got down.
"What, alone, Herr Stein!" exclaimed von Bohmer. "Von Secker, then, has failed us. Has he sent any papers?"
"He says it is not safe to leave Dutch territory," replied the new-comer, "or, rather it is unsafe to enter it again from this side He is nervous—just imagine our von Secker being nervous."
The man addressed as Stein laughed uproariously. It was obvious that he was a German officer in disguise, otherwise he would not have dared to express his mirth in the presence of the haughty von Bohmer and his companion.
"But the documents, man!" exclaimed the latter impatiently.