"

Dennis laid the receiver down, and was rapidly recounting all the
general had said to his brother, when he stopped and switched his light
off.

A quick step was heard in the outer room. The real spy was approaching,
and their old acquaintance, Von Dussel, alias Van Drissel, came through
the doorway, turning on his own light as he did so!

CHAPTER XX

The Last Rung of a Broken Ladder

For a couple of strides he advanced towards them, deceived for an
instant by the jacket of the dead German which Dennis was wearing. Then
he sprang back with a startled cry, his light vanished, and the clang of
the heavy door echoed dully in the pitch darkness.

Bob Dashwood's hand gave his brother's shoulder a warning grip, and the
pair listened, scarcely breathing. In both their minds was the one
thought: Had their enemy gained the outer room before the door closed,
or was he still there, waiting for the first sound that should betray
their whereabouts?

Dennis, who had been standing erect when the torch beam found him, now
crouched low; but Bob stood motionless, his head turned sideways to
listen, the half-smoked cigarette still in his mouth.

The silence of the room seemed to be intensified by the gunfire outside;
and, without thinking, Bob Dashwood pulled at the cigarette.

The tiny end shone faintly, with a brighter glow, a loud report broke
the unnatural stillness, and the bullet of an automatic pistol carried
the cigarette from the smoker's lips and struck the wall behind him!

Even Bob Dashwood, to whom physical fear was unknown, felt himself turn
pale at the narrowness of his escape.

The spy was still there, and evidently a crack shot, while they had no
firearms!

After a long, thrilling pause, a gloating laugh came out of the
darkness.

"The English are the greatest fools in the world; or is it perhaps that
they have no weapons, hein?" said the spy's voice, the soliloquy being
evidently intended for his listeners' benefit.

Dennis was conscious that his brother had edged away behind a large
boiler, and groping desperately in the pockets of the German coat,
hoping against hope that he might find something that would turn the
tide in their favour, his own fingers closed on--a raw potato!

An idea occurred to him, and with a silent jerk of his forearm he threw
it to the other end of the room. As the potato fell, Von Dussel swung
round and fired two shots in the direction of the sound, and under cover