"A very good disguise, isn’t it?" said Granger. "But there is little time to spare. The bullet is in an amiable Teuton who popped round the corner at an unfortunate moment--for him. No doubt he was shadowing me: I must make another change in my outward favour, that is clear. His confederate missed me and winged the accomplice. I couldn’t catch the fellow. Probably he has gone back to the town to get assistance, and I must be moving. I’ve a few minutes, however, and you can help me. I was on my way to headquarters. I have just heard that the Germans are bringing up some heavy siege guns to demolish the forts. They are coming by road: were last heard of at Crefeld--huge things, drawn by innumerable traction engines from the estimable millionaire’s works at Essen. Will you carry the news to headquarters for me? You will save time--and probably my skin." "Certainly," said Pariset at once. "This explains the cessation of the bombardment." "No doubt. They did not expect that poor little Belgium would turn into a Jack-the-Giant-Killer, or they would have brought up these monsters of theirs before. They represent the last word in Culture--according to the gospel of Krupp. I will leave you, then." "Ware spies!" said Kenneth, as they shook hands. "We set a thief to catch a thief, don’t we?" said Granger with a smile. He put on his hat and was gone. "We had better get away at once," said Pariset, biting the end off a Dutch cigar. "But I don’t care about reporting by hearsay. What do you say to taking a look at them?" "At what?" "At these new apostles of culture." "The big guns!--why not?" "We shall have to cross into German territory--a risky game. If caught we shall be instantly shot." "We’ve risked a good deal already without damage. Let us try it. I know the country; I’ve often cycled from Cologne to Crefeld." "That’s to the good. Very well, then; I’ll get leave to go first thing in the morning. We’ll use the Taube and wear German uniforms. And in case any one comes hunting for Granger, let us pay our bill and go." ———— At six o’clock next morning the inhabitants of an old farmhouse at Erkelenz, not far from the Dutch frontier, were seated at breakfast. There was an old man of some sixty years, his wife and daughter, boys and girls, and two women servants. The farmer himself and his male hands were all on service. "I wonder where Daddy is now?" said one of the boys. "And Fritz and Hans?" said a girl. "Somewhere on the way to Paris, little ones," said the grandfather. "He will bring you back some fine playthings. Granny is wearing the brooch I brought from Paris forty years ago." "Mother says Daddy may be killed," piped another boy. "Nonsense!" said the old man. "Was I killed? Not even wounded. Why should your father be?" "How long will he be away?" asked another. "Not long. How long was I away in ’70, Granny?"