The officer whipped the hidden hand round. A revolver banged in the stilly air. The aim, however, had been turned by a cunning parry, followed by a dexterous thrust by the nimble Spud. He had pinned his aggressor right through the breast. The man fell with a groan. As he tumbled, Sergeant Killem and the guard dashed out. One glance, and the sergeant staggered a little. "God! Tamson—it’s a staff officer. You’ve kill’t him." "A spy, ye mean," said the cool sentry, putting his foot on the dying man’s chest, and with a jerk withdrawing his bayonet. "A spy!" "Ay—see the revolver! He tried tae shoot me." "That’s queer, man," ejaculated Sergeant Killem, bending down. Lifting the red-banded cap off the wounded man’s head and unwinding the muffler, he was startled to see a face clearly German, with the usual student scar. Opening a British warm jacket, the sergeant also found a close-fitting tunic worn by the German officers. "You’re richt, Tamson. By Heaven! he’s got a cheek," muttered Killem, as he extracted a large six-inch map, a note-book, a woman’s photo, and other things from the dying man’s pocket. When this search had been completed they lifted the almost dead German into the guardroom. Spud now tore out his own field dressing and tried to stanch the mortal wound, while the sergeant rang the telephone bell in the Divisional Headquarters. "Well?" replied an aide-de-camp. "I’m the sergint on the examination post. A sentry has jist shot a spy in a motor-caur. He’s dying in the hut." "Let him die," was the blunt reply. "And I say, sergeant?" "Yes, sir." "Search the man and his car. Keep everything till the Intelligence Officer arrives." "Very good, sir," said Sergeant Killem, hanging up the ’phone. A further search revealed many things. Papers showed the amazing daring and skill of this spy. The strength, guns, morale, and distribution of the Allied Arms was almost perfect. In the garb of a staff officer he had been everywhere—an easy thing when one remembers the mighty salaams and reverential awe which the "Brass Hats" receive from the respectful Tommy Atkins. "This is his last trip, onywiy," said the sergeant, casually picking up the woman’s photo which the spy had carried in his pocket. Spud came forward to view it. "That’s an actress," remarked Tamson. "Ay. English at that." "It’s the Principal Boy in that big London panto," exclaimed Spud, who knew the name of every actress, boxer, and racehorse. "Man, you’re richt; but listen——" "A motor-caur! That’ll be the officer," said Spud. A few minutes afterwards the car stopped at the door, and a major of the Intelligence Staff came in. "Here he is, sir," said the sergeant, showing him the wounded German in the corner of the hut. "Good Lord! it’s Von Darem!" muttered the startled officer. "Wha, sir?" inquired Killem. "Oh, the late Military Attaché in London," was the off-hand reply of the officer. "Here’s his papers."