ourself, prisoner?" said the commandant,
eyeing him keenly from top to toe, through the chalk and dirt that
encrusted him, and Dennis in excellent French told him who he was.

"Where is the dispatch of which you speak?" was the next question, and
Dennis pointed to his torn tunic. "It was destroyed when the car was
blown up, Monsieur le Commandant," he replied.

"But you must still have some proofs of your identity. What is that in
his pocket?" And the commandant, who had lit a cigarette, pointed with
the match.

The corporal thrust his hand into the drab tunic and produced two things
which he laid on the table by the long loaf from which the officers had
cut slices to dip in their coffee.

"Ha!" said the commandant, opening the wallet. "You told me your name
was Dashwood, but here it is given as Alfred Robinson."

"I brought that away from the body of the man who drove me," explained
Dennis. "That is the English chauffeur's licence from Scotland Yard."

"And this?" continued the officer, his face becoming graver as he
examined the German soldier's "small book." "Here you are described as
Hans Schrettelmeyer, Private in the 24th Reserve Battalion of the 108th
Saxons; how do you account for it?"

"That I picked up in the fire trench of my own battalion when we
repulsed the attack last night," said Dennis, drawing himself up a
little and colouring indignantly as he found his position becoming
serious.

"Oh, come, you are evidently fond of picking things up, my friend," said
the commandant with a dry smile. "Is there anything else that you have
found that will help you?"

"I have my own identification disc," said the lad hotly, and then he bit
his lips as he groped between his shirt and undervest.

"Unfortunately, monsieur, it has also gone!" he exclaimed, turning pale.

"Ah, well, I do not think we want it," said the commandant, tilting his
chair backwards. "We have had several of your kind prowling about our
lines lately--one only last night, and an example is necessary. You are
a spy, my friend, and that is the end of the matter."

"Look here, sir, this is all bosh!" exclaimed Dennis hotly in his own
language, realising for the first time that appearances were dead
against him.

"Quite right, my boy," laughed one of the other officers in English.
"You are all Boche. I think there is very little doubt about that."

The commandant leaned across the table and said something in a low voice
to the others, and