he noticed that the door of the collecting box
was open, and that while she peered along the deserted trench she was
gathering the letters and dropping them into a receptacle beneath her
white apron.

"I didn't know they had women letter carriers out here," thought Dennis;
"possibly they take them down on the hospital train for quickness'
sake--and yet----"

An indefinable suspicion followed on the heels of his surmise as the
girl turned her head, and in an instant he recognised the red hair and
dark eyes of the waitress in the London restaurant.

The rumble of the motor lorries at the cross-roads deadened the noise of
his approach as he came softly up behind her, and then his suspicions
were confirmed beyond any possibility of doubt.

"Got you at last, Frau von Dussel!" he exclaimed, seizing her arm; and
with a low cry she dropped a bunch of letters on to the ground, thrust
her hand into the breast of her apron, and drew out a Browning pistol.

But he was too quick for her, and his fingers closed like a vice on her
wrist.

"Brute, you are hurting me!" she wailed.

"Not half so much as you have hurt some people I could mention!" he
retorted hotly. "You are my prisoner, you vixen!"

For a moment the big dark eyes blazed unutterable hatred, and then she
laughed aloud.

The unrestrained laugh of a German woman is the index to the German
character. It is one of the most horribly unmusical sounds on earth.

"You shall never take me alive!" she hissed.

"And there I beg to differ; I _have_ taken you, though how long you will
remain alive will rest with the higher powers."

He kicked the Browning which she had dropped aside with his foot, and
for an instant she struggled with a violence that surprised him, giving
vent to a piercing shriek which brought several soldiers running to the
spot. Among them was one of the Military Police.

"Your handcuffs, my man!" said Dennis, "this is one of the most
dangerous German spies at large. I accept all responsibility for my
action, but I am going to take her to our Brigade Headquarters for
further identification."

A Red Cross nurse is a very sacred personality to the British soldier,
but Dennis's voice carried conviction with it, although the artful jade
made a bold bid for liberty.

She ceased her struggles and said in a plaintive tone without a trace of
foreign accent, "It is a wicked mistake. I am a Welsh woman, and my name
is Margaret Jones. The Sister on the trai