"Since you know the officer, Monsieur Barrington," said the commandant, when Kenneth had explained the nature of the error, "perhaps you will go with this sergeant. Present my compliments, and say that the General Leman is at Fort de Loncin, and that I, Commandant Fleurus, will be pleased to receive the English officers in his absence. But, listen; if by any chance the Major Duncan-Dean is not the one you know, say that the General will receive presently, ask them to wait, and return immediately to me." Escorted by the sergeant, Rollo was taken to a room where four officers, correctly dressed in British field-service uniform, were seated. One glance was sufficient. None of them bore any resemblance to the Major Duncan-Dean whom the lad knew well. There was only one major of that name in the Duke of Cornwall's Light Infantry, and he was a fairly frequent visitor at Colonel Barrington's house, especially during the shooting season. Rollo delivered the commandant's message in English, explaining that he was British but attached to the Belgian army, and that he was a son of Colonel Barrington of Holmfrith, near Truro. There was no sign of recognition on the part of the supposed Major Duncan-Dean; instead, an awkward silence prevailed. None of the four officers seemed at all anxious to reply. They all looked disappointed and embarrassed. "Our message is of great importance and for only the ears of General Leman," said one of them at last. "We will not trouble the commandant except to give us permits to enter Fort Loncin and to telephone to the General that we are about to arrive." Suddenly a hand grasped Rollo's shoulder in a vice-like grip, and the muzzle of a revolver was clapped against his temple. "One sound and you are dead!" exclaimed a stern voice. The lad was already convinced that the so-called British army officers were Germans in disguise. Not only was he sure that the pseudo Major Duncan-Dean was an impostor; the peculiar phraseology of the man who had replied to the commandant's message confirmed his conclusions. To crown everything, there was the conviction carried by the muzzle of that revolver. Rollo spent a nasty minute. His mind was working furiously, weighing up the factors of the situation. To raise the alarm meant death to himself; to fail to do so might result in the cold-blooded massacre of Commandant Fleurus and several of the staff; while, with the head-quarters telephone at their disposal, the four Germans might play havoc with the plans of the Belgian Commander-in-Chief. The Germans were talking rapidly in a low tone. The one who held Rollo prisoner still kept the revolver against the lad's temple; the rest had each drawn an automatic pistol, and were evidently about to force their way into the presence of the commandant.