breathlessly. He went to his horse and wiped his
hands upon its mane.

"Bah!" he exclaimed, "how he smelled of bad cigarettes!"

Martin was leaning in the saddle, looking down at the dark form in the
mud.

"Oh, he is dead enough," said Kosmaroff. "I broke his neck. Did you not
hear it go?"

"Yes--I heard it. But what was he doing here?"

"That is yet to be found out," was the reply, in a sharp, strained
voice. "This is Cartoner's work."

"I doubt it," whispered Martin. And yet in his heart he could scarcely
doubt it at that moment. Nothing was further from his recollection than
the note he had given to Netty in the Saski Gardens ten hours ago.

"What does it mean?" he asked, with a sudden despair in his voice. He
had always been lucky and successful.

"It means," answered the man who had never been either, "that the
place is surrounded, of course. They have got the arms, and we have
failed--this time. Take the horses back towards the barracks--and wait
for me where the water is across the road. I will go forward on foot and
make sure. If I do not return in twenty minutes it will mean that they
have taken me."

As he spoke he took off his white overcoat, which was all gray and
bespattered with mud, and threw it across the saddle. His working
clothes were sombre and dirty. He was almost invisible in the darkness.

"Wait a moment," he said. "I will get over the wall here. Bring your
horse against the wall."

Martin did so, avoiding the body of the sentry, which lay stretched
across the foot-path. The wall was eighteen feet high.

"Stand in your stirrups," said Kosmaroff, "and hold one arm up rigid
against the wall."

He was already standing on the broad back of the charger, steadying
himself by a firm grip of Martin's collar. He climbed higher, standing
on Martin's shoulders, and steadying himself against the wall.

"Are you ready? I am going to spring."

He placed the middle of his foot in Martin's up-stretched palm, gave a
light spring and a scramble, and reached the summit of the wall. Martin
could perceive him for a moment against the sky.

"All right," he whispered, and disappeared.

Martin had not returned many yards along the road they had come when
he heard pattering steps in the mud behind him. It was Kosmaroff,
breathless.

"Quick!" he whispered. "Quick!"

And he scrambled into the saddle while the horse was still moving.
He was, it must be remembered, a trained soldier. He led the way at