"He's better than captured," said Fleck. "He's lying dead back there in the house."

"Good," cried Brook-White. "He was infernally dangerous according to my advices--but Captain Seymour--where is he? Wasn't he working with you?"

"Captain Seymour?" cried Fleck in astonishment. "I never heard of him.

Who's Captain Seymour?"

"He's one of my chaps," explained Brook-White. "Wasn't it he who steered you up here?"

"I should say not," said Fleck emphatically.

"Good Lord," cried the British colonel excitedly. "You don't suppose those bloody Boches got him at the last--after all he's been through? I hope he's safe."

"Don't worry, Colonel Brook-White," came the calm voice of Frederic Hoff from the rear seat. "Chief Fleck has me here safe in shackles with the other prisoners."

"God," cried Fleck, in astonished perplexity. "Is Frederic Hoff a Britisher--one of your men?"

"Rather," said Brook-White. "Chief Fleck, may I present Captain Sir Frederic Seymour, of the Royal Kentish Dragoons."


But Fleck was too busy just then to heed the introduction, or to pay attention to the muttered "_Donnerwetters_" of indignation that burst from the lips of his other prisoners.

Jane Strong had fainted dead away against his shoulder.