"Nearer this time," announced Meredith. "Voices, too." "Too jolly guttural for my liking," added Wakefield. "It's a Fritz surface cruising. We'll lie doggo." "Wish they'd push along out of it," said the stroke in a low tone. "We want to get another move on." These sentiments were shared by the rest of the boat's crew. Every man knew what detection meant. A machine-gun turned upon the boat, or perhaps a bomb thrown with the whole-hearted generosity that Fritz was wont to display towards a boat-load of helpless seamen. "Silence!" hissed Wakefield, holding up his hand to impress upon the men the necessity for absolute noiselessness. A minute passed in breathless suspense. Although the unseen craft had again switched off the ignition, the plash of water against her bows was distinctly audible. "Stand by to give way, men," whispered the skipper. "If she spots us we may be able to give her the slip in the fog." Even as he spoke a sudden gust of wind swept over the boat. As if by magic the hitherto enfolding pall of mist was torn relentlessly aside, revealing in the full light of the moon the outlines of a U-boat at less than fifty yards from the survivors of M.L. 1071. CHAPTER IV THE SPY "FIFTEEN metres fine grey sand, Herr Kapitan." Ober-leutnant Hans von Preugfeld, commanding officer of U 247, was typically Prussian in his thoroughness. Carefully he examined the sand adhering to the "arming" of the lead line that the leadsman held up for his inspection. He grunted a sort of congratulatory reply and, turning his back upon the black oilskinned seaman, addressed himself to the second-in-command. "Good, Eitel!" he exclaimed. "We are not far from the spot. But caution the men to keep their ears open and to stop running at intervals. I am in no mood to fall in with any of those hornets, nor do I want an English destroyer cutting us in twain." Eitel von Loringhoven, unter-leutnant of the Imperial German Submarine Service, nodded his head comprehendingly. He, too, fully realised the perils that beset pirate _unterseebooten_, for, despite all possible precautions, Germany's under-water fleet was in a bad way. It came home to him in a very personal manner, too, for he was the last survivor of five brothers who had gone out into the North Sea mists at the behest of Admiral von Tirpitz. Four had never returned. Of the manner of their demise he was in total ignorance. Perhaps some day, if he survived the period of hostilities, the British Admiralty might enlighten him, but until then his knowledge of how four von Loringhovens simply vanished was merely a matter for conjecture. And the very mystery of it all was both nerve-racking and terrifying not only to Eitel von Loringhoven but to every officer and man serving in the _unterseebooten_ flying the dishonoured Black Cross Ensign.