“It’s no use, Mademoiselle,” was the harsh reply, “I know you perfectly. You must come with me—or shall I call the police?”
There was obviously nothing for it but to obey, and Yvette was forced to leave the hotel in the clutches of the one man in all Germany she had the greatest reason to fear.
Jules acted promptly. Slipping out of the hotel he hurriedly wheeled to the front a motor-bicycle he had hired to enable him to travel speedily between Berlin and Spandau. He got round just in time to see Kranzler put Yvette into a taxi, and followed them until they alighted at the door of the house in the Koeniggratzer-strasse which was the head-quarters of the German Secret Service. Yvette was taken inside.
To get the news to Dick was now Jules’ first consideration. Knowing something of the methods of the German Secret Service he was reasonably sure that Yvette would be put through a long examination before she was taken to prison, and he decided to run the risk of being absent for a short time to get his message away. He drove hastily in his car out into the country until he found a tree to which his aerial wire could be attached and got off the brief message which conveyed the news to Verdun. Then he returned to watch, and ascertain where Yvette was to be imprisoned.
The taxi was still outside the door when he got back to the Koeniggratzer-strasse. As an excuse for waiting he feigned engine trouble and tinkered with his machine, keeping all the time a close watch on the door opposite.
He had not long to wait. In about half an hour Yvette was brought out, still in the custody of Kranzler, and driven away. Jules followed, and, at length, had the satisfaction of knowing that Yvette was in the big prison outside Spandau. It was a melancholy satisfaction, it is true, but to know where she was was of supreme importance.
Driving to Gaston’s farm he soon informed Verdun where Yvette was located and then turned to discuss the position with Gaston.
To his intense surprise and delight, Gaston was able to give him some comfort.
“Of course, it is a great misfortune,” he said, “but it might be worse. They have taken her to the one prison in Germany where we have been able to keep a thoroughly trustworthy agent. He is a warder who passes as Herman Fuchs; his real name is Pierre Latour. We shall soon know all about Mademoiselle.”
The front of the prison was in dear view from Gaston’s farm. Going outside, he called on Jules to help him to move one of three large barrels, each containing a big flowering shrub, which stood side by side in front of the house facing the prison. One of these was taken away, leaving only two.