Lieutenant Axel, bending over the table with his back to the door, was absorbed in his occupation. But just as the intruder reached his chair he seemed to become aware that he was not alone. He turned suddenly, his right hand holding the fountain pen, his left, by some instinct, crushing the papers into his pocket, and found a determined face glaring at him, and a carving knife pointed at his breast. Before he could collect himself a sinewy hand clutched him by the throat, and a voice said in a hoarse whisper: "Make a sound and you’re a dead ’un." Whether a knowledge of English was one of Lieutenant Axel’s accomplishments or not, there was no mistaking the hand, the knife, the purport of the words. He turned pale; his eyes searched the room for a chance of escape; he was discreetly silent; and at a significant movement of the offensive blade he raised his hands above his head. A drop of ink fell on his nose. The captor, in whose expression there was eagerness, anxiety, an air of listening, loosed his grip on the officer’s throat. "Take off your uniform and ’coutrements," he said, with a jerk of the knife. Lieutenant Axel hesitated for a moment only. The Englishman’s face was not pleasant. Hurriedly he stripped off tunic, trousers, belt and boots. "That’ll do," said Ginger, in whose eyes the look which the German had mistaken for fury really indicated that he was at his wits’ end to know how to effect the change of clothes without putting down the knife and giving his captive an opportunity to dash for the door. An idea flashed upon him. Still pointing the knife at the officer, he took up the lamp with his left hand, placed it on the chimney piece close by, and stripped the cloth from the table. "Put it over your head," he whispered fiercely. Again a movement of the knife abridged the lieutenant’s hesitation. The shrouding table-cloth eclipsed the concentrated fury of his eyes. Ginger wasted not a second. He shoved the officer into a corner of the room, pulled a sofa across to bar him in, cut a bell-pull with the knife, and drawing the cord over his head, began to tighten it. The German began to struggle; for the first time he spoke. "You shtrangle me!" came the muffled words. "Shut up!" growled Ginger, with a premonitory dig of the knife. "I won’t graze your skin if you don’t make a fuss. But----" Lieutenant Axel may have wondered: this hateful pig was certainly not expert in frightfulness; he was very soft, like all the English. But the struggles ceased; the officer was quiet while Ginger knotted the cord about his neck. And he stood there in the corner, a statue in table-cloth and pants, as Ginger, with a quickness learnt on raw mornings in the barracks at home, endued himself with the well-tailored habiliments of a Prussian officer. The boots were a trifle large for him. He listened. All was quiet. He threw a dubious look at the rigid officer. "Not safe," he muttered.