But between them and the car loomed suddenly a tall and impressive figure. His helmet and his measured tread upon the deserted cobble-stones proclaimed his calling. “The constable!” whispered Herbert. “He must see us, but he mustn't speak to us.” For a moment the three men showed themselves in the middle of the street, and then, as though at sight of the policeman they had taken alarm, disappeared through an opening between two houses. Five minutes later a motor-car, with its canvas top concealing its occupants, rode slowly into Stiffkey's main street and halted before the constable. The driver of the car wore a leather skull-cap and goggles. From his neck to his heels he was covered by a raincoat. “Mr. Policeman,” he began; “when I turned in here three soldiers stepped in front of my car and pointed rifles at me. Then they ran off toward the beach. What's the idea--manoeuvres? Because, they've no right to--” “Yes, sir,” the policeman assured him promptly; “I saw them. It's manoeuvres, sir. Territorials.” “They didn't look like Territorials,” objected the chauffeur. “They looked like Germans.” Protected by the deepening dusk, the constable made no effort to conceal a grin. “Just Territorials, sir,” he protested soothingly; “skylarking maybe, but meaning no harm. Still, I'll have a look round, and warn 'em.” A voice from beneath the canvas broke in angrily: “I tell you, they were Germans. It's either a silly joke, or it's serious, and you ought to report it. It's your duty to warn the Coast Guard.” The constable considered deeply. “I wouldn't take it on myself to wake the Coast Guard,” he protested; “not at this time of the night. But if any Germans' been annoying you, gentlemen, and you wish to lodge a complaint against them, you give me your cards--” “Ye gods!” cried the man in the rear of the car. “Go on!” he commanded. As the car sped out of Stiffkey, Herbert exclaimed with disgust: “What's the use!” he protested. “You couldn't wake these people with dynamite! I vote we chuck it and go home.” “They little know of England who only Stiffkey know,” chanted the chauffeur reprovingly. “Why, we haven't begun yet. Wait till we meet a live wire!” Two miles farther along the road to Cromer, young Bradshaw, the job-master's son at Blakeney, was leading his bicycle up the hill. Ahead of him something heavy flopped from the bank into the road--and in the light of his acetylene lamp he saw a soldier. The soldier dodged across the road and scrambled through the hedge on the bank opposite. He was followed by another soldier, and then by a third. The last man halted. “Put out that light,” he commanded. “Go to your home and tell no one what you have seen. If you attempt to give an alarm you will be shot. Our sentries are placed every fifty yards along this road.”