NIGEL FARRAR'S state of mind was far from being composed when he found himself under lock and key in the interior of the submerged U-boat. Apart from the physical pain and exhaustion, and the unaccustomed air in the confined space making his head throb with redoubled violence, his nerves were greatly overstrung. That was doubtless accentuated by his wound, but he tried to pull himself together like a true British sailor.
There was the disconcerting thought, too, that the U-boat stood a great chance of being strafed by the British destroyer, patrol-boats, and aircraft; and with a full knowledge of the terribly efficient means at submarine hunters' command the prospect was far from alluring. It was one thing, he reflected grimly, to chase a Fritz and blow him out of existence with depth charges; another to be most unwillingly in his company when the deed was done.
More than once the selfish wish flashed across his mind that he had taken the gun-layer'sadvice and fought it out. Better to die fighting than to perish miserably like a rat in a trap.... But it was for the best, after all... his men—comrades all—were still free, although their position a hazardous one.
Tormented by doubts and fears the sub spent a bad two hours, nor was the ordeal over when the door of his prison was thrown open and an electric torch flashed full in his face.
Dazzled by the sudden transition from pitch-black darkness to the blinding glare, Farrar stood bolt upright and stared with unseeing eyes at the Hun behind the light. His spell of mental depression had passed, and although his head was racked with pain, he faced his captor with a calm resolution that surprised himself.
He was under the mistaken impression that von Loringhoven confronted him, although on second thoughts he reflected that the Hun would hardly go to the inconvenience of interviewing the prisoner in such uncomfortable conditions. Nor could he satisfactorily account for any desire on his part for the Hun to see him, yet he could not banish the impression that it was von Loringhoven and none other.
Except for a brief interval when the kapitan-leutnant of the lost U 254 had been marched under escort from the "Antipas" to temporary quarters in Trecurnow, Farrar had never to his knowledge set eyes on him until a few hourspreviously, but von Loringhoven and the sub were alike in one respect—they had good memories for faces.
"Dis way; come quick!" exclaimed the German with the torch. The sub recognised the voice as that of the unter-leutnant.
In his still saturated, scorched, and badly torn uniform, and with a blood-stained bandage round his head, Nigel presented a forlorn appearance when he was unceremoniously ushered into the presence of von Loringhoven and the kapitan-leutnant of the U-boat in a fairly spacious cabin immediately below the elongated conning tower.
The submarine was still running beneath the surface, but the fear of pursuit was apparently at an end for the time being, since the kapitan-leutnant had handed over the control of the vessel to a quartermaster.
Since the commanding officer of the U-boat could not speak English the examination was carried out by von Loringhoven, who in turn translated, or mistranslated according to his own purpose, the prisoner's replies.
"What is your name?" demanded von Loringhoven.
Farrar told him.
"Ach!is that so?" exclaimed his questioner. "This is, to quote one of your English idioms, a little bit of all right.' Unless I am greatly mistaken you are the officer who shot my friend von Gobendorff in cold blood."
"It was an accident," corrected the sub. "I was rabbit-shooting, and quite by chance I wounded him slightly in his head. As to saying it was——"
"Accident?" interrupted von Loringhoven. "That is good. Whenever an Englishman does an underhand bit of work and he is discovered the excuse is, 'It is an accident.' However, that is one count against you. Now, what have you to say when I accuse you of being a common pirate, committing outrages under the cover of a Greek flag?"
"Surely he cannot have heard of the strafing of the U-boat that was shelling the 'Epicyclic's' boats?" thought the sub. "I'll say nothing about that."
"Come! Come!" pressed the Run. "Why hesitate in your reply?"
"What evidence have you as proof of your assertion?" asked Farrar.
"Evidence? My own eyes," explained von Loringhoven, laughing unpleasantly. "If you are such a fool as to go close under the stern of the ship I happened to be on—it was the British tramp 'Andromeda,' if that information interests you—it is not at all to be wondered at that I saw the Greek flag flying from your pirate craft?"
"It is permissible in the circumstances," said the sub shortly. "Germany has done the same thing times without number. Providingthe hostile vessel under false colours replaces them by his own before opening fire it is a legitimateruse de guerre. I think, however, that there is no justification of the conduct of certain of your submarines. I personally witnessed one engaged in shelling unarmed men in open boats."
"Oh!" sneered von Loringhoven. "Did you? Are you sure it was a German submarine?"
"She showed no number," replied the sub.
Von Loringhoven shrugged his shoulders.
"Even if she were," he continued, "you ought to recognise by this time that as far as Germany is concerned might is right. We do not admit of any outside interference in the conduct of the war, otherwise where should we be? If you English are such fools as to play at making war, allow yourselves to be hoodwinked by your statesmen who attribute every one of your numerous set-backs to the mysterious working of Providence—you know perfectly well that the words, 'Adverse weather conditions,' appear in almost every official report—that is to Germany's advantage. But to return to business. You are a pirate. As such you richly deserve to be shot without further delay, but we have motives for sparing your life, although I don't envy your lot."
The German spoke with rising temper. For some cause that the sub could not fathom he was venting his wrath upon the prisoner.
"From this time forward," resumed von Loringhoven, "you are dead as far as your friends are concerned. I need hardly inform you that Germany does not report the names of all prisoners in her hands. How do you like the prospect of toiling in mines until you die? Not pleasant, eh? There is one way of evading the punishment, however. Of that you will hear more later. Meanwhile I would advise you to give all the information we demand, without any attempt to deceive us, for you will assuredly be found out."
"In other words," exclaimed the sub, "you want me to be a traitor to my country. I'll see you to blazes first."
"The interview is at an end," declared von Loringhoven, in cold, measured tones, that had a sinister ring in their delivery. "For what you are to undergo you have only yourself to blame."
Unprotestingly Farrar was led back to his cell, an empty store-room in the fore part of the submarine, and immediately beneath the torpedo-tubes compartment. His resolute courage had reasserted itself. He no longer dreaded the attentions of a British destroyer; the satisfaction of knowing that a pack of cowardly Huns would be done in outweighing the fear of death, even in their unhallowed company.
For the next twenty-four hours he was kept in utter darkness; his food and drink during that period consisted of black bread of theconsistency of plaster of Paris and a pitcher of water. He could not help contrasting his present position with that of certain German officers whom he had seen as prisoners on board British men-of-war. In the matter of food and drink they fared equally as well as did their captors; if wounded, they were given the best medical attention available, and their comfort was considered in almost every possible way. The ungrateful Hun, however, does not thank his captors for their little attentions. With the arrogance of his race he attributes his easy lot as a prisoner of war to the fear of the British as to what might happen to them when Germany is victorious. And on their part the British have yet to learn fully—as they are beginning to do—that the only thing the German fears is the force of armed might.
During the second day of his captivity Nigel was allowed to take exercise on deck in charge of a couple of alert seamen, who had been strictly enjoined to take every precaution lest the prisoner should leap overboard.
The U-boat was now within sight of land, for lofty ranges of mountains were visible on the starboard hand. She had evaded the Otranto patrols and was now in the comparatively safe waters of the Adriatic, and within easy distance of the numerous land-locked harbours of the Dalmatian coast, where, under the lee of a chain of islands, the battle-fleets of the world couldlie undetected from the open sea save from the all-seeing eyes of an aircraft.
With a couple of German sailors standing with ready automatic pistols at a distance of twenty yards apart, the sub was compelled to walk briskly to and fro on the fore deck. Fortunately the sea was calm and the comparatively low-lying platform was practically free from the waves, although occasionally a crest would break inboard and swirl ankle-deep as far aft as the base of the conning tower.
Before Farrar had been five minutes at his enforced exercise the kapitan-leutnant, who had been intently watching something on the distant horizon, rapped out a string of orders, from which the sub was able to understand with his limited knowledge of German that the U-boat was about to dive.
Unceremoniously the prisoner was hustled below, and as he descended the vertical steel ladder of the for'ard hatchway, he heard a petty officer remark, "Fortunately we have but one torpedo. I cannot understand why, since we are so near our base, the kapitan should risk it."
"And against an armed warship, too," added the Hun to whom the remark was addressed.
"It is unreasonable. What is she?"
"One of those accursed monitors, I believe," replied the first speaker with a shrug of his shoulders; then, catching sight of the prisonerbeing hurried forward, he spat contemptuously.
"We have to thank these Englanders for all this," he added. "But for them the war would have been over long ago, and we should be drinking Munich beer in the beer-gardens of Wilhelmshaven instead of being cooped up here—perhaps everlastingly."
A gong sounded, orders were communicated to various parts of the submarine, as, with the hiss of water entering her ballast tanks and the muffled purr of the electric motors, the U-boat dived.
In his cell Farrar could hear the jumbled noise of a dozen or more different sounds. Once he fancied he heard the detonation of the impulse charge that liberated the torpedo. There was certainly a sharp horizontal movement that follows the release of the powerful self-actuated weapon. In vain he strained his ears for the crash of the explosion, but he certainly heard the subdued reports of several quick-firers in action.
It was not until three hours later that the U-boat rose to the surface and Farrar was permitted to resume his airing on deck. Judging by the disgruntled appearance of officers and crew, the attempt to torpedo the hostile vessel was a failure.
Long afterwards the sub heard that the craft attacked was a British monitor returning from certain important work in the Gulf ofVenice. The U-boat's torpedo had "got home," but owing to the peculiar construction of the vessel attacked, the missile did very little harm beyond blowing away a few plates from the exaggerated space surrounding her interior or main hull, which in naval parlance is generally spoken of as the "old hooker's blisters."
Upon returning to his cell the sub, worn out by his exertions and privations, threw himself down upon a pile of empty sacks and was soon sound asleep. It seemed as if he had been slumbering only a few minutes when he was aroused by a couple of seamen standing over him. One held an electric torch; the other, having indicated that the prisoner should collect his scanty belongings, including his meagre stock of food, motioned the sub to go on deck.
It was a bright moonlit night. Not a breath of wind ruffled the waters of the enclosed harbour in which the U-boat lay. She was not alone, but moored in one of three tiers of submarines, some eighteen or twenty in all. Each craft was ingeniously camouflaged, light nettings being suspended fore and aft, the meshes of which were liberally sprinkled with freshly cut foliage, while the periscopes ended in tufts of broad-leafed evergreens.
On one side of the harbour was a small village fronted by a long wharf, on which electriccranes and locomotives were at work. Although not a light was visible in any of the houses and the large workshops on the higher ground beyond, the clearness of the moonlit air enabled the sub to take in most of the characteristic features of the place. Almost encircling what was undoubtedly a secret U-boat base was a range of lofty serrated hills, culminating on the northern side in three conical peaks of equal height.
Nigel Farrar's observations were cut short by the angry voice of the kapitan-leutnant.
"Fools, pig-dogs, imbeciles!" he roared, addressing the two seamen who had charge of the prisoner. "Did I not strictly enjoin you to blindfold the Englishman?Donnerwetter!You will pay dearly for this omission."
Possibly with the idea of mitigating the impending punishment by a belated display of zeal, or else with a vindictive desire to get even with their captive for trouble in store for them, although through no fault of his, the Huns seized the young British officer by the wrists, wound a strip of coarse canvas so tightly round his head as to threaten him with suffocation, and bundled him forward to a gangway that led over the bows to a pontoon.
Presently the yielding planks of the pontoon gave place to hard metalled ground, and the sub knew that he was once more on dry land. Stumbling over ring-bolts and railway lines, tothe gross amusement of his gaolers, the prisoner was led for a distance of nearly a mile. All around he could hear sounds of activity, the hum of machinery, the rasping of metal, and the thud of numerous pneumatic hammers predominating, while the air reeked with the fumes of petrol and a peculiar, nauseating odour that the sub failed entirely to identify.
Engines, evidently drawing small trucks, judging by the noisy clatter, were passing and repassing continually, so close that Farrar distinctly felt the windage from the rapidly moving train and the blast of hot-oil-laden air in his face, for his captors had condescended to readjust the bandage so that it no longer impeded his mouth and nostrils.
Groups of men, marching rather than walking, were frequently passing, and coarse greetings in which reference was made to the blindfolded prisoner were bandied between them and the Huns, but the language in which they spoke, although it bore a certain resemblance to German, was almost incomprehensible as far as the sub was concerned.
Then one of the German seamen gripped Farrar's shoulder and guided him across what felt like a swaying plank bridge. An iron gate was opened and closed with a sonorous clang, and a rifle-butt grounded on hard stone.
"Sentry," thought the sub. "Seems like a tough nut to crack, but if there's a ghost ofa chance I'm on it. Wonder what's coming next?"
Up a flight of stone steps and through a wicket gate set in a larger door the prisoner was led; then along a corridor into a room. The bandage was removed from his eyes, and in the glare of a number of electric lamps he found himself face to face with Ober-Leutnant Otto von Loringhoven. With the latter were four naval and military officers in German uniform, and another in what the sub rightly guessed to be that of the Emperor Karl of Austria.
"This is your last chance, prisoner," began von Loringhoven without any preamble. "Do you agree to give us all the information you possess on any subject of which we wish to obtain intelligence?"
"I gave you my answer," replied the sub fearlessly.
"Did you?" sneered the Hun, his lips curling menacingly, and displaying a row of teeth resembling the fangs of a wolf. "What was it?"
"I told you I'd see you to blazes first," said the prisoner. "And I'll stand by what I've said."
"Very good," rejoined von Loringhoven. "I trust that you will enjoy yourself in the sulphur mines of Ostrovornik."
SNOW was descending in large flakes upon the southern slopes of the rugged Riesen Gebirge, the lofty range of mountains forming part of the national and political boundary between the German Empire and its vassal state—the dual monarchy of Austro-Hungary. At three kilometres beyond the diagonally striped post marking the limits of Saxony a thin-faced, emaciated man, clad in garments little better than a collection of rags, was sheltering on the lee-side of a gaunt pine tree. From his features one would guess his age at anything between thirty to thirty-five, although his actual years were short of twenty. Privation, lack of sufficient nourishment, and hardships untold had prematurely aged him, yet there was a certain self-confidence in his bearing that refused to be smothered by adversity.
After stepping from under the trailing branches and glancing dubiously at the dark, snow-laden clouds, the wayfarer returned tohis place of shelter, drew a small piece of black bread from his pocket and began to munch it ravenously.
"The Lord only knows where the next meal is coming from," he soliloquised—not flippantly, but with a sense of deep and reverent feeling. Although he had spoken nothing but German for the last sixteen days—and he spoke it with an accent that defied criticism—he thought in his mother-tongue, which was English.
For longer than he cared to think he had been a prisoner of war, one of those luckless civilians who on the outbreak of the Great War found themselves trapped within the limits of the German Empire; and up to a little more than a fortnight ago he had eked out a dismal and precarious existence in the vast detention camp at Ruhleben.
And now he was tasting of the sweets of freedom. He could walk, eat, and sleep without being under the constant surveillance of German guards. He had to walk stealthily; eating was reduced to a fine art—that of making a little of doubtful nutritious powers go a long way; sleeping consisted of dozing fitfully—often in the open and occasionally in the welcome shelter of a more than half-empty barn. But these discomforts were as naught compared with the drab monotony and depressing surroundings of Ruhleben. He bore them with an equanimity bordering upon exuberance,counting present vicissitudes as stepping stones towards his ultimate goal—his homeland.
The fugitive was a man of considerable reasoning powers. Arguing that his late captors would naturally conclude that he was making westward towards far-distant neutral Holland, he had decided to go south, risking the lesser danger of a journey through Austria, and seize a favourable opportunity of passing through the comparatively weak cordon between the Tyrol and the north of Italian Lombardy. The possibilities of escaping into Switzerland had entered into his calculations, only to be set aside. Bavaria offered too formidable a stumbling-block. There were ways and means on the Italian frontier, and he meant to try them.
The wayfarer's thoughts were rudely interrupted by the pulsations of a motor that was rapidly approaching from the direction he had just come.
"A Mercèdes, by Jove!" he exclaimed. "What brings a car along this unfrequented pass, when there are two at least, infinitely better engineered, within an hour's run? Hope to goodness I haven't been tracked."
Thankfully he noticed that his footprints had already been obliterated by the fast-falling snow. Then, throwing himself at full length behind a dead thorn bush, every branch of which was outlined with dazzling white powderysnow, he awaited the appearance of the approaching car.
He was not long kept in suspense. Swaying and lurching the huge Mercèdes swung into sight round a projecting spur of rock. With the bonnet, wind-screen, and dash-boards hidden by the accumulation of snow, and throwing showers of glistening flakes from the wheels, the car presented a picturesque spectacle one moment. At another it was a tangle of wreckage.
The catastrophe happened when the vehicle was abreast the solitary pine tree where the fugitive had been sheltering. There was a loud report as one of the tyres burst. The wheels skidding the car slewed sideways and toppled over the edge of the road upon a partly snow-covered rock fifty feet below.
Unhesitatingly the Englishman left his place of concealment and made his way over the slippery track formed by the skidding wheels, until he was able to look over the unguarded side of the road upon the wrecked car.
It was lying on its side, the fore part shattered almost beyond recognition, but the relatively frail coupé had come off comparatively lightly. The top was torn away and the glass windows smashed to fragments, but through the open roof the fugitive could see that the interior was almost intact, and that huddled on the floor was the figure of a man wearing a German officer's field overcoat.
Very deliberately and cautiously the Englishman descended the sloping cliff. It would have been an easy task but for the snow that lay thickly on the numerous ledges and had drifted into a deep bed, in which the car was partly buried.
Forgetting everything else in his eagerness to render aid, the fugitive plunged knee-deep through the drift and gained the overturned car. The door had jammed. With all the strength at his command he was unable to wrench it open. Clambering up the side of the coupé he dropped through the huge gap in the roof.
A brief examination of the body of the occupant was enough. The man was dead, although there were no signs of external injury.
"I can't help him," soliloquised the Englishman. "But he might be able to help me. I'll consider that part later. Meanwhile, what has happened to the chauffeur?"
Standing on the heavily cushioned seat he drew himself through the hole in the roof, and sliding down to the snowdrift proceeded to scramble over the thinly covered ledge of rock that alone had prevented the overturned car from crashing full four hundred feet into the valley beneath.
There were ghastly evidences of the fate that had overtaken the driver of the wrecked car. The force of the impact had hurled him bodilythrough the wind-screen and over the bonnet. Striking the projecting rocks he had glissaded into the abyss. A grey patch, already nearly obliterated by the falling flakes, was all that was visible of the soldier-driver of the demolished Mercèdes.
Returning to the car the Englishman thoughtfully contemplated the body of the dead officer. Then he scanned the edge of the road above, to make as certain as possible that no one was in sight. Satisfied on that point he contrived by dint of great exertion to drag the defunct German from the car and place him on the snowdrift.
"Very much my build. A bit fatter, though," he soliloquised grimly. "I'll risk it, though it would have been better if I could have appropriated the chauffeur fellow's uniform."
Rapidly he proceeded with his uncongenial task. Time was when he would have recoiled in horror at the mere suggestion, but the prize at stake was more than sufficient to overcome his natural qualms. Ten minutes later the fugitive was dressed in the uniform of a German Staff officer, while the body was laid in a shallow trench in the snowdrift.
"If this fall continues," said the Englishman to himself, "the wreckage will be completely covered in a couple of hours. Even now I doubt whether it would be noticed by any one proceeding along the pass. It will be weeks, perhaps months, before the snow disappears."
Returning to the interior of the damaged coupé the rehabitated fugitive found that the bulk of the dead officer's baggage had been flung from the roof and was for the present irrecoverably lost. Inside, however, was a portmanteau, while on the seat was a luncheon basket well stocked with choice eatables of a nature that had long been denied to all but the higher military caste of the German Empire.
In the fairly warm temperature of the coupé the Englishman rested comfortably, making a hearty meal, and washing it down with a glass of Rhenish wine. Then, lighting a cigar, he leisurely scanned the papers from the breast pocket of the officer's coat.
"By smoke!" he ejaculated, slapping his knee. "This is great—absolutely. I find that I am now Baron Eitel von Stopelfeld, Major of the 19th Reserve Hanoverian Regiment, engaged on special service in the Austrian Empire. Ah, here we are: private and confidential memorandum outlining my important duties—signed by the Kaiser's Head of the General Staff, too."
The instructions were to the effect that Baron von Stopelfeld was to make a tour of inspection of various military prison camps in the Austrian Empire, with a view of arranging for the transfer of a certain number of Serbian and Italian prisoners of war to Germany, to take the places of those Russian captives who, in view of the Muscovite surrender, were to be repatriated.
At the foot of the typewritten text was a paragraph in ordinary writing, reminding the delegate that he must also pay particular attention to the important matter mentioned in his recent interview with the Chief of General Staff; and, unless any news of vital interest rendered it expedient, the Baron was not to communicate either by letter or wire before the 19th.
"And to-day's the 12th," soliloquised the pseudo von Stopelfeld. "That gives me six clear days. Hullo, what's this?"
He stopped and picked up a telegraph form—crumpled, and with one corner burnt. It looked as if the Baron were in the act of destroying it when he was hurled to his death.
"Cipher, worse luck," muttered the Englishman. "Received at 9 a.m. on the 12th. Handed in at Berlin, delivered at Hirschberg; that's almost the nearest town across the frontier."
Further search revealed a complete set of maps, a road guide, and book containing the code. Upon the sudden crash the latter had fallen from the German major's hands and had slipped between the cushions.
Decoded the message ran:
"Above all things observe carefully any indications of disaffection in the ranks of our Allies, especially the Hungarian regiments. Do not commit your discoveries to writing. In particular make the acquaintance of MajorKarl Hoffer, the commandant of the Ostrovornik mines disciplinary camp. On production of your credentials he will give you the latest formula for the manufacture of——"
The instructions ended in a word that did not appear in the code book, which was the only fly in the ointment that the Englishman had found.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "Why not? I'll risk it. After all's said and done a thundering lot of downright cool cheek often pays when you're in a tight corner. It would be a rattling good joke to be taken in an Austrian train to a convenient station near the frontier. Yes, dash it all! I'll try a second Kopenick hoax."
HAVING refreshed, the fugitive gathered together a few portable articles that had belonged to the deceased Baron Eitel von Stopelfeld, including the portmanteau. Luggage, he decided, must be suffered in spite of the inconvenience of carrying it in the snowstorm; the major's sword, too, for experience had taught him that no swashbuckling, sabre-rattling Prussian officer goes far without that emblem of authority except when he is a prisoner of war.
It was a difficult task to regain the road, hampered as he was with his recently acquired possessions, but at length the pseudo baron achieved that part of the business. Viewed from the unfenced mountain pass the derelict motorcar was, as he had expected, almost hidden by a mantle of white.
Fortunately the wayfarer had the wind at his back, but even then his progress was laboriously slow. Never less than ankle-deep, often thigh-deep, the snow was rapidly increasing, until more than once the Englishman debated whether he should seek shelter until the storm abated.
"Might be days before it does," he mused, "and it's no joke being caught out in the mountains. At the first village I strike I'll have to pitch in a yarn how I, Major Baron Eitel von Stopelfeld, chance to be servantless and forced to carry my own luggage."
On and on he trudged, sternly resisting the tempting desire to rest. He knew the danger of halting in the snow when in a semi-torpid state and falling into a sleep that knows no wakening in this world. He was grateful, too, for the warmth of the great-coat, realising that his previously ragged garb would have been totally inadequate against the intense cold. For the next five kilometres the road was of a give-and-take order—rugged, undulating, and fully exposed to the now boisterous wind that howled down the pass; then, on rounding a right-angled bend the gradient was steeply on the downward path. Three thousand feet below lay one of the fairest of the Bohemian valleys, its verdant fields and the tops of graceful trees of the pine woods bathed in brilliant sunshine.
Not until he was below the snow-line did the traveller halt, partake sparingly of food and drink, and then set out boldly towards a wooden hamlet that nestled around a small church with a lofty, slender spire.
"That must be Ober Gersthof," decided the Englishman, referring to his map. "No railway within fifteen miles. Well, I reckon thatI've done enough for to-day, so here's for the luxury of a bed. Now the question is: have I to treat these Bohemian peasantry in the same way as the Junkers deal with theirs? I suppose so, since Austro-Hungary, nominally an ally of Prussia, is actually a dependent and vassal state."
At about a mile from the village the bogus baron came across the first human being he had seen since the untimely, yet, in a sense, fortunate demise of Major von Stopelfeld. Ambling along a lane was a farm hand leading a low cart laden with a late autumn crop of hay. He was whistling blithely, his full features, tanned with exposure to wind and sun, and his fleshy arms contrasted forcibly with the shrunken, bloodless subjects of the German Kaiser.
The Englishman halted, put down his portmanteau, and imperiously beckoned to the countryman to hasten. This the man did, evidently out of good humour and a desire to render assistance, but his face showed no signs of the utter subservience of the menial Hun.
"I have been compelled by the storm to leave my carriage and servants at Teutelsfeld," announced the make-believe German officer, naming a village about ten miles away and far to the east of the pass through which he had come. "I desire to get to the railway at the nearest station."
"That is at Reichenberg, a good six hours'journey, Herr Offizier," replied the man respectfully, yet without any sign of cringing.
"Is there a good inn here?" inquired the Englishman, pointing towards the village. "A good inn, mind."
"The 'Three Feathers,' mein herr," answered the peasant. "If you will let me, I will carry your baggage and direct you to the door."
This the peasant did, receiving a mark note for his services, for the "major" found himself well provided with paper currency in addition to silver money equivalent to £3 in British coinage.
The landlord accepted the traveller's explanation without demur, being of a simple open nature, and after a plain but substantial meal the Englishman went to bed, reflecting that but for the difference in language and the characteristic Bohemian scenery he might have been in a rural village in his native land.
Early next morning the pseudo baron hired a conveyance which set him down at Reichenberg just before noon. At the station were hundreds of reservists and a fair sprinkling of Austrian officers; and not without certain feelings of trepidation the Englishman took a first-class ticket for Vienna.
Arriving at the Austrian capital he had abundant evidence of the war weariness and social stagnation of the once gay city. Although he encountered several officers in Germanuniform none noticed him beyond exchanging punctilious salutes, compliments that were indulged in by the Austrian soldiery, but with ill-concealed reticence, for everywhere the idea was growing that the Dual Monarchy was being bled white at the behest of Germany.
That same evening the supplanter of the Kaiser's envoy found himself at Judenburg, a small town in Styria, almost under the shadow of the lofty Noric Alps. It was not his fault that he had not gone farther, but a slight landslip had rendered the railway unsafe at a short distance beyond the town, so perforce he had to remain.
Having secured a room at the chief hotel and signed the register, the Englishman was preparing for a quiet evening, when the aged waiter knocked at the door.
"Pardon, Herr Offizier," he exclaimed deferentially. "A gentleman to see you."
"A mistake," declared the fugitive in a loud voice. "I know no one here, nor do I want to see strangers."
"But it is a person of rank who would speak with you, mein herr. Behold his card!" And he tendered a piece of pasteboard on a wooden tray, for the hotel's silver salver had long since gone to augment the depleted coffers of the Emperor Karl.
The Englishman took the card. His eyebrows contracted as he read the name. Major KarlHoffer, Officer-Commandant of the prison camp of Ostrovornik.
"I've been and gone and done it now," muttered the bogus baron. "This is the result of flying high. Fortunately he's a stranger to the real von Stopelfeld; but it seems as if I'm booked for the Ostrovornik trip. Another day wasted—hang it!"
"Show him in," he ordered, and snatching up his sword he hastily buckled his scabbard to the slings of his belt, twirled his waxed moustache (he had remarked the genuine baron's hirsute adornment, and his elaborately fitted dressing-case had proved very useful to its new owner) and adjusted the well-fitting tunic.
The jingle of spurs and the clank of a scabbard trailing a cross the oaken floor were the sounds that heralded the approach of the distinguished Austrian. The door was thrown wide open, and the waiter, in a joint capacity of major-domo, sonorously announced the name and title of the visitor.
The Austrian officer stepped briskly three paces into the room, halted, clicked his heels, and saluted, the Englishman likewise standing smartly to attention and returning the compliment.
"Well, major," said the latter, signing to his guest to take a chair. "This is a pleasant but unexpected surprise."
"I happened to see your name on the register,baron," replied Hoffer, "and knowing that you were due to visit my establishment I anticipated the meeting. I understand that you are relieving me of the care of a hundred rascally Serbs and Italians. I wish you joy of them."
For some minutes the two men discussed the merits and demerits of the various nationalities of the prisoners of war, while the supposititious baron ordered a couple of bottles of wine.
Under the influence of the juice of the grape Karl Hoffer waxed injudiciously communicative.
"That is a mightily efficient gas you are manufacturing at Ostrovornik," remarked the Englishman.
"Yes," replied the Austrian. "Perhaps you are already aware that this district is practically the only place in Central Europe where sulphur is found in large quantities. This deposit was only discovered since the war. The trouble was that the gas was so efficient that we lost hundreds of prisoners during the experimental stages—not that it mattered much since they were prisoners, except that the new drafts had to be instructed: a tedious business, as you can well imagine. Until we hit upon an effectual antidote we lost men at the rate of twenty a day. The symptoms? Acute irritation of the epidermis, quickly followed by paralysis of the limbs. Death will ensue within twenty minutes. Curiously enough, the gas does not affect the respiratory organs. It is a remarkablyefficacious weapon to employ against our enemies."
The Austrian leant back in his chair and laughed heartily. The gruesome details seemed to afford him intense amusement.
"Then you found an antidote?" asked the Englishman, with well-assumed indifference.
Major Hoffer leant forward and lowered his voice to a husky whisper.
"Like most things: simple when you know, baron," he replied. "We tried canvas overalls steeped in hyposulphite of soda—no good; india-rubber solution—equally non-effectual. The gas seemed to eat its way through with hardly any perceptible delay in its action. Glass is impervious to it, but a soldier cannot fight in a glass case."
He paused to watch the effect of his communication, more than half expecting the "baron" to ask him to continue. Had he done so, the Austrian might have drawn into his shell and put his questioner on the wrong scent.
The Englishman offered no remark, but merely refilled his guest's glass.
"Yes," resumed Major Hoffer, "it is a simple preventative—quite accidentally discovered, although the English and Americans would be most glad to know what it is. Hypo-sulphite of soda, alum in solution, and vaseline, all applied to thin canvas overalls and masks,the alum being merely to render the textile fabric non-inflammable."
The conversation was maintained for the best part of an hour, the Austrian officer doing his level best to impress that he was very much "in the know"; while the Englishman, by discreet questioning, obtained a vast store of valuable information.
"Then I will see you to-morrow at eleven," said Hoffer, as he rose to take his departure. "If I were you, baron, I would recommend that Italian prisoners only be taken for the work that your Government proposes to start. They are better than the Serbs, especially the Sicilians and Neapolitans who have previously been employed in their native sulphur mines. I suppose it would be too much to ask you to arrange for the transfer of an English prisoner?"
"An English prisoner?" repeated the supposed German officer. "For what reason?"
Major Hoffer shrugged his shoulders.
"Personally I do not like the responsibility of him," he explained. "We Austrians have not nearly so much hatred for England as you Germans, if you will pardon my saying so. I received the prisoner very unwillingly. He was landed from one of your U-boats at an Adriatic port, and he ought, I take it, to be placed in a German camp. A kapitan-leutnant—Otto von Loringhoven, brother to the Julius von Loringhoven of Zeppelin fame practicallyinsisted that I should receive the prisoner for work in the sulphur mines. Why, I know not."
"What is the prisoner's name?" asked the sham baron.
The Austrian shook his head.
"I cannot say off-hand," he replied. "In fact, I think he appears on the list of prisoners only as a number."
"Is he tractable?"
"Like a caged bear; but by cutting down his rations we have tamed him a bit. Starve an Englishman, and you develop the comparatively mild strain of the Latin and Gallic blood in his veins; feed him, and the hardy Teutonic, Norse, and Keltic characteristics become paramount. That's the secret, I fancy, of the mongrel British nation. A cross-bred dog is invariably hardier than a pure-bred animal."
"Then there ought to be a future before the Austro-Hungarian Empire," remarked the Englishman.
"Alas, no," rejoined Major Hoffer. "There seems to be a hard-and-fast line between the German Austrians and the Magyars. They are like two large tributaries running into one broad channel, flowing side by side, but each preserving its characteristics; for instance, like the swift-flowing Rhone and the sluggish Saône after their confluence at Lyons."
"I'll see this Englishman," decided the pseudo baron. "If you want to get rid ofhim, a little German discipline will work wonders. The prisoner interests me. So much so that I feel inclined to take him in hand myself. You can spare two soldiers to guard him?"
"Half a dozen, if you like," replied Major Hoffer, only too glad to escape the after-consequences of having charge of a British naval officer, who, according to the rules of war ought to be receiving honourable treatment. "And you will make a point of writing to von Loringhoven and explaining matters?"
"Two men will be sufficient," said the Baron, studiously ignoring the second question, but resolving at some future date to communicate with the vindictive von Loringhoven.
At the appointed hour the Englishman, arrayed in the full splendour of his "borrowed" trappings, presented himself at the wicket-gate in the double-barbed wire fence surrounding the Ostrovornik sulphur mines. A guard of honour composed of Hungarian reservists turned out and saluted, the distinguished visitor noting with a certain amount of satisfaction that the men did not show any great signs of mental alertness. They were of a type used to being ordered about, and accustomed to carry out their instructions with stolid acquiescence.
Within the inner fence the baron was met by Commandant Hoffer, who still bore traces of the bout of hard drinking in which he hadindulged, both in the supposed von Stopelfeld's company and afterwards.
"I have just received a telegram from my senior lieutenant," remarked the "baron." "He is still held up at Lietzen, owing to the railway being disorganised. You will, I trust, excuse the absence of my staff?"
"Certainly, baron," hiccoughed the Austrian officer. "You wish to begin by making an inspection of the gas-producing plant?"
The spurious von Stopelfeld facetiously poked his fingers against the commandant's ribs.
"We know each other now," he exclaimed. "I'll leave out the actual inspection—not that I have no faith in your anti-gas protector, major, but simply because I hate exertion. You might show me the register of prisoners. Oh, no; I don't want to inspect the men."
"But the Englishman?" inquired Major Hoffer, as he led the way to the office.
"Oh, I forgot all about him," rejoined the "baron," with well-feigned indifference. "Is he fairly tractable to-day?"
"You will soon see, baron," replied the Austrian commandant, and calling to a sergeant he bade him take a file of men and bring Prisoner No. 445 to the office.
After the lapse of about ten minutes the sergeant knocked at the door.
"The prisoner, Excellency," he announced.
"Bring him in," growled Major Hoffer.