When we came in at nightfall, at the end of our second patrol, Rouse was still abroad in his car. For this relief we were thankful, for the evening before he had sat with us during our supper and, hungry though we were, had gone far to spoil the meal. Our respite, however, was short, for we had scarcely sat down before we heard him arrive, and a moment later he thrust his head into the room.

“Guess who I’ve seen,” he said archly.

No one vouchsafed any answer; but Tester spoke for us all, by leaving his cushion and passing beneath the bed.

“Mr. Wilberforce,” said Rouse triumphantly.

The name meant nothing to me, and a glance at Mansel and Hanbury showed that their case was the same.

At length⁠—

“Who’s Wilberforce?” said Mansel wearily.

Rouse’s grin faded, and his eyes grew round with surprise. Then he came into the room.

“He⁠—he said he knew you,” he stammered. “He said he knew you quite well. I met him by the side of the road. He asked me the way to Salzburg, and then we got talking and, when I said you were at Villach, he asked how you were.”

“What was he like?” said Hanbury.

Rouse described some man I had never seen.

“When was this?” said Mansel.

Rouse said about six o’clock.

“I think you must know him,” he added. “He said that he lived near Bournemouth and he asked all about you and how you were getting on. I said you were out a great deal and⁠—There now, I’ve left them in the car.”

As he turned to the door⁠—

“Left what in the car?” said I.

“The flowers, of course, stupid,” said Rouse. I could have choked, but Mansel and Hanbury began to shake with laughter. “I tell you he gave me some flowers. Carson will you be so good? The box in the car.”

With a resigned look, Carson left the room.

“The man’s mad,” murmured Hanbury.

“No, he isn’t,” said Rouse excitedly. “He said you were a great gardener.”

“He said I was?” said Mansel.

“Oh, yes,” said Rouse. “I’ve no doubt about it at all. We were talking of horticulture and he said⁠—”

“You must have got the name wrong,” said Mansel. “I know nothing of gardening.”

“You must mean fishing,” said Hanbury.

“No, it must have been gardening,” said Rouse. “Why else should he give me the flowers?”

Here Carson appeared in the doorway, with a shallow, white cardboard box, fastened with string.

“There you are,” said Rouse, handing the box to Mansel, as though there were no more to be said. “He asked me to give them to you.”

“I’m sure you’re mistaken,” said Mansel, taking a knife. “I’m certainly fond of flowers, but⁠—”

“He cut those himself,” said Rouse, “and he said he could think of no one who would value them more than you. James Wilberforce, his name was, and, when I asked⁠—”

“My God!” said Mansel, and Hanbury and I cried out.

The box was full of beautiful, soft, brown hair.

In an instant the room was in an uproar.

As I leapt to my feet, my head struck the electric light and put it out; but I saw George throw himself forward, as Rouse recoiled against the wall. There was a lamp by the bed, and I sought like a madman for the switch, while Tester was barking and George and Rouse were shouting and Mansel was calling George to order in a steady, metallic voice.

As the light went up⁠—

“It’s beyond a joke,” said Rouse, painfully getting to his feet. “You might have hurt me very much. Supposing⁠—”

“How did you come by that box?” said Mansel.

“I tell you,” said Rouse, “he told me to give it to you. I understood they were flowers and that you⁠—”

“You say he was going to Salzburg?”

“I think so,” said Rouse, wincing. “He⁠—”

“Please describe him again.”

Rouse gave the particulars, staring.

“And now describe his car.”

When he had done so, Mansel stepped to the door.

“I’m sorry for what’s happened,” he said. “The fault was not yours. And now please go. We’ve plans to make and rather a lot to discuss.”

Without a word, Rouse turned and limped from the room.

For a little, none of us spoke.

Then⁠—

“Do you believe him?” said Hanbury.

“Why not?” said Mansel. “If the enemy knows we’re here, you can bet he hasn’t missed Rouse. And there you are. I said Rouse might be of use, and I was right. He’s just been of use to Rose Noble. Perhaps tomorrow he’ll be of use to us.”

My room and Mansel’s shared a small balcony, and that night Tester waked me by putting his nose on my arm. I was up in an instant, for the dog was plainly uneasy and I feared that something was wrong. As I passed barefoot to the window, I saw that the light was burning in Mansel’s room.⁠ ⁠…

Mansel was on his knees by the side of the bed, with one arm across his eyes, like a weeping child, and the other hand full of the curls which lay in a little heap in the midst of the counterpane.

For a long time he never moved, but at last he lifted his head and, when the dog came running, he picked him up in his arms.

I stole back to bed.

The next day was Sunday.

Mansel started for Salzburg at seven o’clock, taking Carson with him, and the rest of us left for the hog’s back within the hour.

I ran into Rouse on the doorstep, as I was leaving the inn.

“I must beg your pardon,” he said, “for the way I spoke last night. It was very wrong of me. And I feel you were most justly provoked.” He laughed inanely. “I was very disappointed myself. But I do hope Captain Mansel won’t take it up with Mr. Wilberforce. After all, we’re all liable to make mistakes, and I’m sure he had no intention of playing a joke.”

At first I could make no reply.

At length⁠—

“That’s all right,” I said. “I’m afraid we were rather⁠—rather hasty. Supper’s a bad time, you know.”

With that, I rushed off, before he could clasp my hand.

When I told Hanbury⁠—

“The man’s half-witted,” he said. “And I’m ashamed of myself for bringing him down. I don’t wonder Rose Noble hangs his hat on him. I think we should soon find Adèle, if he had a comic idiot round his neck.”

“Yet Mansel has hopes of him,” said I.

“As a hatstand,” said George. “That’s all.”

Not until ten that night did Mansel return to the inn.

We had come in at sundown, and Rouse had badgered us nearly out of our lives, for, remembering our offences of the night before, we felt constrained to be civil, and the fact that the day was Sunday seemed to entitle his cloth to consideration. Before retiring, he asked if he might read us the Gospel. We could hardly refuse, but I fear it did us no good and only enlarged the sympathy we felt for his flock.

Very soon after, we heard the sigh of the Rolls, and a moment later Mansel entered the room.

“Gone to bed?” he said, looking round.

“Ten minutes ago,” said I, “by the grace of God.”

“Then you’re friends again,” said Mansel.

I told him how Rouse had spoken on the steps of the inn and what we had suffered since sundown at the hands of the fool.

“Good,” said he. “Any news?”

“Devil a bit,” said I. “And you?”

“Salzburg’s no earthly,” says he. “Indeed, I was so sure of that that I’ve been at Poganec all day.” We opened our eyes. “But don’t tell Hannibal R.”

“He never dreamed you’d gone to Salzburg. If he had⁠—”

“Oh, yes, he did,” said Mansel, sitting down in a chair. “But he knew I should waste my time. I tell you, he’s pretty hot stuff, is Hannibal R. And you must admit he’s put up a wonderful show. Talk about sheep’s clothing.”

Hanbury was looking at me in a helpless way, and I fancy he found slight comfort in my expression, for he soon returned to Mansel, and I did the same.

“Last night,” said Mansel, “you asked me if I believed him. The true answer was ‘No’; and the whole truth, ‘I never did.’

“And now listen.”

“The moment I saw him, I felt sure that he was our man. He was where I had expected to find him, and he couldn’t escape, because he had a flat tire. Yet in the first five minutes he played the fool so beautifully that against my better judgment I found my suspicions failing and I had to fight with myself to keep them alive. And then he made a mistake. It was a very slight one, and I don’t think he thought I saw. He did a thing that no clergyman that wears a round collar would ever do. He put up two hands, as though to straighten a tie.”

He paused there, to pour himself some ale: and, when he had drunk, he lighted a cigarette.

“Well,” he continued, “the obvious thing to do was to play his game⁠—satisfy him that we didn’t suspect him at all. And that’s why I didn’t tell you. Your undisguised contempt for him has been simply invaluable. I should think he’s been revelling in it⁠—I know I have. By the way, I’m telling you now, because you won’t see him again⁠—at least, not upon the same terms.

“Now, first, what was his job? His job was to keep in touch. Rose Noble holds a fine hand, but he knows us too well to sleep sound when we’re out of his ken. So Rouse was to keep in touch⁠—an extremely difficult, job. We were six to one, you see, and ready to find a spy under every hat. So what does he do but step in under our guard? It was done in the War, you know: but only a born artist can bring it off. And Rouse is an old master.

“And now for his value to us. It may become imperative that a spy should return to his chief. Very well. If Rouse thought we suspected him, he’d never return, until he had shaken us off. Never. But, now that he knows we don’t, he’ll go when he thinks he’d better and never take the trouble to look behind. And I think he’ll think he’d better before very long, for he’ll have some news for Rose Noble which will not wait.

“And now, if you please, we shall all go to bed at once, for I’ve no idea when or where we shall sleep again.”

I had slept very ill for three hours when I heard a car making like fury towards the inn. At once I sat up, for, in view of what Mansel had said, I fully expected that it was bound for our door; but it swept up the street, like a squall, and presently turning some corner, passed out of earshot.

A moment later, however, I heard it coming again.

Again it went by the inn, but stopped, with its brakes screaming, a score of paces away. Then the reverse gear was engaged, and the car shot back with a snarl, to come to rest under our windows, before the inn.

The next instant someone was pounding upon the front door.

As I rushed to the window⁠—

“What is it, Berry?” said Mansel, from the balcony.

Major Pleydell stepped back on the pavement and threw up his head.

“Jonah,” he cried, “she’s sent word. She’s got a message through.”

“I’ll come down,” said Mansel.

But George and I were before him and had the front door open, while he was still on the stairs.

For a moment the cousins spoke together: then Mansel turned to us.

“The man’s at Poganec,” he said. “We must go there at once.”

For all our haste, Mansel was ready before us, and I heard him call Carson and tell him to follow with Rowley and that Bell was to pack our light luggage and load the second Rolls.

Two minutes later we left in Major Pleydell’s car: Mansel was driving, while the chauffeur sat by his side.

We did not go to Poganec, but, instead, twenty miles to Crayern⁠—the first station after Villach, if you are travelling east.

Arrived there, Mansel descended, and, wondering what was to happen, we followed him out of the car.

To our surprise, he bade Major Pleydell “Goodbye.”

“And thanks very much,” he said. “You did it most awfully well.”

“I wish it had been true,” said his cousin.

“So do I,” said Mansel. “So long.”

“Good night, you two,” said the other. George and I cried “Good night.”

Then the car slipped into the darkness and Mansel turned to us.

“You must forgive me,” he said. “I’ll never blind you again. And now let’s walk to the station, and talk as we go along.

“Rouse’s room’s above mine. I’m sure the car must have waked him, and I’m sure he heard what was said. She’s got a message through. And that’s the ‘news for Rose Noble which will not wait.’

“Very well. What will Rouse do? He’ll clear out at once. Well, that’s all right, but I don’t think his car will start. He’ll try to locate the trouble, and so will Bell⁠—they’re probably sweating blood now⁠—but they’ll only waste their time. And so Brother Rouse will have to take to the train. I think it more than likely that Bell will drive him to the station, for an Innsbruck train leaves Villach at a quarter to three. The same train leaves Crayern at a quarter past two, that is to say, in exactly ten minutes’ time. So, if we’re quick and that’s the station ahead, we four shall travel together as far as Rouse wants to go.

“Now it’s all very well to make plans for somebody else. I think Rouse will start right away and I think he will take this train. But Rowley will be on the platform to see if he does. If he doesn’t, look out for a flash from Rowley’s torch. If, as the train moves out, we see a flash, we leave the train at the next station: and there we shall find Carson waiting to bring us home. If we don’t get out, he’ll follow the train along, calling at every station until he finds one of us waiting to pick him up.

“Well, there you are. I’ve set my trap and I’ve tried to look ahead. I’d have given a very great deal to have your counsel, but I dared not tell you that Rouse was Rose Noble’s man.”

“Thank God you didn’t,” said Hanbury. “I couldn’t have played the hand to save my life.”

“I covet his nerve,” said I.

“You may well do that,” said Mansel. “Look at that⁠—those flowers. Of course it made you suspect him, but he had you back in your place by eight the next day.”

By now we had come to the station, and ten minutes later we had our tickets for Innsbruck and were aboard the train.

As luck would have it, there was a sleeping car; and, as this was nearly empty, we were able to buy a compartment which held three beds. Comfort apart, this would save us no end of trouble, for now we could lock ourselves in and put out the light. To insure against interference, we told the attendant to make our beds at once and on no account to disturb us till Innsbruck was reached.

He was a talkative fellow and proud of what English he had, and I was soon in a fever lest we should come to Villach before the beds were made: indeed, as the minutes went by, I could hardly sit still, but at last he had set all to his liking and wished us good night.

Two minutes later the train began to slow down.

“Draw the blinds,” said Mansel, “because of the station lamps.”

When we had done so, he took his stand by the window and Hanbury put out the light.

As the train drew into the station, we stood as still as death, and to this day I remember every sound.

From the resonance of all noise, I judged the station empty, except for those on duty and a handful of freight. There was no haste or clamour, and, if passengers came or went, they gave no sign. After a little, a gong clanged five or six times, and a moment later somebody slammed a door. Then the guard, I suppose, wound a horn, the engine whistled in answer and the train began to move.

As Mansel was lifting the blind⁠—

“I must be alone,” said Rouse.

I think we all started.

“Orright, orright,” said the attendant.

The voices came from the corridor outside our door.

Mansel stood like a statue, with the blind half raised in his hand.

“Well, get a move on,” said Rouse. “I’m pretty tired. What time do we get to Lass?”

Then the two passed on down the passage, and we could hear no more.

It was safe enough now to move and to switch on the light: yet we did neither, but continued to stand breathless, each of us busy with his thoughts.

For those of Hanbury and Mansel I cannot answer, but I know that I was thinking neither of what was before us nor of the secret which Mansel had so brilliantly won. I was thinking how the tone of a man’s voice may show the colour of his heart: for the voice was Rouse’s voice, but the tone was that of a harsh and evil man.

At length Mansel let the blind go and asked me to switch on the light.

A short study of the map suggested that we should reach Lass not later than six o’clock. The place lay fifty miles from Innsbruck and was either a fair-sized village or a very small town. The country about was highly mountainous.

It was then arranged that each should watch for one hour, while the others slept. I was to take the first watch, and Mansel the last; “although,” said he, “I think that may be a short one, for, before we get to Lass we must settle one or two things. Still, I shall begin to get pensive at five o’clock, and so, if you two don’t mind, I’ll sleep till then.”

Then the light was put out, and he and George lay down, whilst I sat still by the window, to watch the landscape go by, very fair and peaceful and, under the rule of the moonlight, like an enchanted land.

When Mansel waked us, I found to my surprise that it was half past six, but it seemed that at some small station we had waited nearly an hour, because of some disorder a few miles ahead.

“Which is all to the good,” said Mansel, “for now, when we get to Lass, there will be more people about and we ought to be able to follow without being seen.”

Then he arranged that, until Rouse was off the platform, we should not leave the train, and that, once outside the station, we should immediately disperse: we were then to ignore one another and each in his own way contrive to keep Rouse in view. I was not to follow for more than a quarter of a mile, but was then to return to the station and wait for Carson to come.

Rough as were these proposals, I believe they would have wholly succeeded, had not Fortune served us a very ill turn: for Rouse left the train as casually as though he travelled to Lass every day of his life and made his way out of the station without, so far as I saw, once looking behind.

He paused outside for a moment, to light a cigarette, and then started down the short road which served the station alone. The road was planted with lime trees six paces apart, and, as he walked down the middle, we had but to keep to the path to be out of his view. Mansel and I took the left path, and Hanbury the right.

All of a sudden, Mansel who was leading, stopped dead.

I instantly looked at Rouse, still sauntering carelessly on, with his head in the air, as yet completely unconscious of the two Rolls stealing towards him, perhaps fifty paces away.

In a flash I knew what had happened.

The delay on the line had put a spoke in our wheel, and Carson, with Bell behind him, had caught up the train.

Even as I looked, my gentleman saw the two cars.

For an instant he faltered. Then he glanced over his shoulder and walked straight on.

As they approached, he spread out ridiculous arms, and, when Carson stopped, he stepped abreast of the car and engaged him in talk, laughing and stamping and stooping and slapping his thighs, as though he found the encounter a matter of infinite jest, and completely ignoring the approach of a small motor bus. This had met our train, in the hope, I suppose, of custom for some hotel, and, the hope proving vain, was at last going empty away.

Of the little road the Rolls took more than its share, and, since Rouse with his antics occupied all that was left, the bus could not have gone by without running him down. This it very nearly did, for its driver did not seem to believe that the man would not budge: but, in spite of all manner of warnings, Rouse held his ground to the last, so that the driver was forced to clap on his brakes and actually lock his wheels to let the other get clear. Some argument followed, and this seemed natural enough; but, before it was over, Rouse took his seat by the driver and under the eyes of us all was rapidly driven away.

Maybe we were fools, but the thing was cleverly done.

The cars were facing the station and were far too long to be at all quickly turned: the town lay five hundred yards distant, and no other car was in sight.

Too late Rowley leapt from his seat and flung up the road, in a vain endeavour to mount the bus from behind: too late Carson spurted for the station, to turn in the yard: only, as the bus disappeared, a figure flashed out of the lime trees and into its dust. This was Hanbury: and, since Rouse could not have known that he was behind, I think we all had some hope that he might be able by his speed to pull the unfortunate business out of the fire.

I do not mean to submit that we had cause for complaint. If Adèle was not lying at Lass, she was in the neighbourhood: our quest, from being desperate, had become full of promise; and we had passed, so to speak, at one stride into the running. Yet, but for the train’s delay, we might well have been led clean up to the prison gates and, taking Rose Noble unawares, have had his prisoner out before he knew we were there. And there was the rub. To have lost Rouse was tiresome: to have shown him that we were at Lass, and that in full force, was nothing less than a disaster. There is an old saying that a miss is as good as a mile; but, unless we could overtake Rouse without his knowledge, we were like to lose half the ground we had been at such pains to win.

Such thoughts and the like slid into and out of my mind, as the cars went about in the yard and, waiting a favourable moment, I boarded the second and took my seat by Bell.

Only pausing to take up Rowley, we tore after Mansel and Carson, now well under way.

Had the town lain further away, we must have come up with the bus, but the road this had taken was crooked and after a quarter of a mile ran into the streets. These were as narrow and faithless as any I know, for almost at once Carson was in a blind alley, and, though I saw his mistake in time to save Bell, the way we took brought us into a miniature market and left us there to get out as best we could.

At once I jumped out of the car and, calling to Bell to follow, began to run back. A passage presenting itself, I took this at once, in the hope of striking that quarter which we had failed to find, but, though it led into a street, I had to turn right or left, whereas, to my way of thinking, I needed to hold straight on. I ran to the right and turned up the first street I saw, but this curled round in a hoop, and, as soon as I had the chance, I turned again.

It follows that within five minutes I knew neither where I was nor how I had come, and, since I could speak no German, I had no means of obtaining any direction. Bell I must have outrun, for he was not to be seen.

Now why I called Bell to follow, instead of Rowley, I never can tell: it was against all reason, for Bell could handle the Rolls, but Rowley could not, and we had left the car so blocking the jaws of the market that nothing could come or go. It was, indeed, so unnatural a mistake to have made that I have often wondered whether Providence itself did not put his name into my mouth, for, had I called Rowley instead, we should have lost a chance which would not have come again.

I had walked for another five minutes, without result, and was standing at a corner, where a very ancient fountain was playing behind a grill, wondering which way to take and thinking how childish it was to be lost in a town the size of St. James’s Park, when a soft, green fig fell suddenly down at my feet. I at once looked up and around, to see Hanbury’s face at a window and Bell’s behind.

As our eyes met, George beckoned to me to come up, but, before I could give any sign, they had disappeared.

The window at which I had seen them was that of a handsome oriel, serving a fine, old house, which must once, I think, have lodged persons of high degree, for a coat of arms had been cut above the doorway and each of the oriel’s corbels was charged with some device. The floor below was now used as a bookseller’s shop, and little but the doorway remained to show what it had been.

I immediately crossed the street and entered the shop, when an old man at once came forward and, using very fair English, inquired of what service he could be. Before I could answer, Bell came from behind a bookcase and said that I was a friend, whereupon I was ushered upstairs without a word.

A moment later we entered a handsome room, more than half of which was loaded with books, while the hither or oriel end was curtained off and made an agreeable parlour, full of light.

George was sitting on a table, gazing out of the window from which he had beckoned me up: this was commanding a close, at the corner of which played the fountain by which I had stood.

“Bill,” said George, “where’s Mansel?”

“God knows,” said I. “Where’s Rouse?”

“Down in that close,” said George. “He went into one of those houses, but I’ve no idea which.”

“How on earth did you do it?” said I, clapping him on the back.

“I don’t know,” said George. “I couldn’t stand up when I got here, but just fell down in the shop. The old fellow was quite upset. By the grace of God he speaks English, and, when I could breathe, I pointed to Alison’s Europe and asked him how much it was. He said ‘Two pounds⁠—English money.’ So I said I’d give him five if he’d let me sit up in this window as long as I pleased. He threw the figs in, but don’t touch them⁠—they’re the only munitions I’ve got. And not everyone stands by that fountain: I had to throw three at Bell. And now what’s to be done? I know how to hurry, but I look to you for the brains.”

Standing well back from the window, I stared at the close.

How many houses there were I could not tell, for they were irregularly built and several were overhung: but the close was shallow⁠—a bare fifty paces in depth, with a heavily timbered mansion blocking the farther end. The place was plainly most aged and would have been a feature of any city I know, but Lass was so old and curious and had been so little touched that the close was no more than in keeping with the rest of the town.

“I think one thing is certain,” said I, “that Adèle is not in this town: it’s much too busy for Rose Noble. Rouse has gone to ground in some house of call⁠—some lodging or other they’ve taken down in that close. And, unless there’s a back way out, I don’t think he’ll leave before dark. If I am right and the house is a meeting-place, there’s no reason why he should, for he can send word to Rose Noble by someone we’ve never seen.”

“That’s encouraging,” said Hanbury. “Not that it seems a very popular walk: only five people have used it since I’ve been here. But it’s early yet and⁠—well, there’s a man coming now. He doesn’t look very likely, but then they never do.”

“I don’t see what we can do,” said I, “until we know which is the house. You can’t run after a man just because he comes out of that close. It’s suspicious, of course, but we’re only six, all told, and, until we’ve got more to go on⁠—”

“Sir,” said Bell, “that’s the man. He was on the quay at Dieppe.”