g eyes, rolling out platitudes to Stumm,
who was nearly bursting in his effort to keep civil. I looked moody
and suspicious, which I took to be the right line.

'Things are getting a bit dead at Salonika,' said Mr Blenkiron, by way
of a conversational opening.

Stumm pointed to a notice which warned officers to refrain from
discussing military operations with mixed company in a railway carriage.

'Sorry,' said Blenkiron, 'I can't read that tombstone language of
yours. But I reckon that that notice to trespassers, whatever it
signifies, don't apply to you and me. I take it this gentleman is in
your party.'

I sat and scowled, fixing the American with suspicious eyes.

'He is a Dutchman,' said Stumm; 'South African Dutch, and he is not
happy, for he doesn't like to hear English spoken.'

'We'll shake on that,' said Blenkiron cordially. 'But who said I spoke
English? It's good American. Cheer up, friend, for it isn't the call
that makes the big wapiti, as they say out west in my country. I hate
John Bull worse than a poison rattle. The Colonel can tell you that.'

I dare say he could, but at that moment, we slowed down at a station
and Stumm got up to leave. 'Good day to you, Herr Blenkiron,' he cried
over his shoulder. 'If you consider your comfort, don't talk English
to strange travellers. They don't distinguish between the different
brands.'

I followed him in a hurry, but was recalled by Blenkiron's voice.

'Say, friend,' he shouted, 'you've left your grip,' and he handed me my
bag from the luggage rack. But he showed no sign of recognition, and
the last I saw of him was sitting sunk in a corner with his head on his
chest as if he were going to sleep. He was a man who kept up his parts
well.

There was a motor-car waiting--one of the grey military kind--and we
started at a terrific pace over bad forest roads. Stumm had put away
his papers in a portfolio, and flung me a few sentences on the journey.

'I haven't made up my mind about you, Brandt,' he announced. 'You may
be a fool or a knave or a good man. If you are a knave, we will shoot
you.'

'And if I am a fool?' I asked.

'Send you to the Yser or the Dvina. You will be respectable
cannon-fodder.'

'You cannot do that unless I consent,' I said.

'Can't we?' he said, smiling wickedly. 'Remember you are a citizen of
nowhere. Technically, you are a rebel, and the British, if you go to
them, will hang you, supposing they have any se