t
row of sandbags but one, when, without any warning, a group of heads
popped up over the parapet, and five officers with night glasses
examined the British line.

He could have reached out and taken the first one by the collar, so
close was he, and clinging there, ready to drop and bolt for it, he
listened with all his ears.

Secure from all eavesdropping--for who would venture across that No
Man's Land on such a night?--the five men talked freely, with all the
blatant self-assumption of Prussian sabre rattlers, and the wet wind
that brought their words to him brought also the smell of their cigars.

But if the listener's pulse quickened at their conversation, his heart
beat faster still at the conclusion of it.

"By the way, Von Dussel," said one of them, "how comes it that you are
going in with us to-night? Surely you are not abandoning the role that
you have filled with such success?" And Dennis recognised the short
laugh that preluded the reply.

"Not at all, Herr Colonel," said the nearest of the five, "but I have
had no word to-day from my wife, so I know it is of no use penetrating
their lines. Besides, I have an old grudge against the regiment in front
of us--a quarrel I hope to settle to-night."

"You may rest quite easy that you will do so," laughed the colonel; "our
five battalions of Prussians are going to do what their Bavarian and
Saxon comrades failed to accomplish. Let me see, it is General
Dashwood's Brigade that is before us here, _nicht wahr?_"

"Yes," chortled Von Dussel; "and it is with the Dashwood family that I
hope to renew an interrupted acquaintance, the pig hounds!"

Dennis had never found it necessary to place such a powerful restraint
upon himself as he did at that moment, and it was perhaps a lucky thing
that the five men withdrew as the spy spoke.

His own clutch on the sandbags had been gradually relaxing, and his
feet were so cramped that he regained the ground with difficulty.

For several seconds he paused irresolute, figuring out how long it would
take him to crawl back to the British trench, and then, suddenly coming
to a very hazardous decision, he sat down on his heels with his back
against the German sandbags.

Spreading the skirt of his saturated mackintosh over his knees, and
holding the Orilux torch which young Wetherby had recharged for him
between his ankles, he breathed a silent prayer to Heaven, and pressed
the button.

Before he had started he had pasted a