Before them, as on a Mafeking night, every window in Cley shone with lights. In the main street were fishermen, shopkeepers, “trippers” in flannels, summer residents. The women had turned out as though to witness a display of fireworks. Girls were clinging to the arms of their escorts, shivering in delighted terror. The proprietor of the Red Lion sprang in front of the car and waved his arms. “What's this tale about Germans?” he demanded jocularly. “You can see their lights from the beach,” said Ford. “They've landed two regiments between here and Wells. Stiffkey is taken, and they've cut all the wires south.” The proprietor refused to be “had.” “Let 'em all come!” he mocked. “All right,” returned Ford. “Let 'em come, but don't take it lying down! Get those women off the streets, and go down to the beach, and drive the Germans back! Gangway,” he shouted, and the car shot forward. “We warned you,” he called, “And it's up to you to--” His words were lost in the distance. But behind him a man's voice rose with a roar like a rocket and was met with a savage, deep-throated cheer. Outside the village Ford brought the car to a halt and swung in his seat. “This thing is going to fail!” he cried petulantly. “They don't believe us. We've got to show ourselves--many times--in a dozen places.” “The British mind moves slowly,” said Birrell, the Irishman. “Now, if this had happened in my native land--” He was interrupted by the screech of a siren, and a demon car that spurned the road, that splattered them with pebbles, tore past and disappeared in the darkness. As it fled down the lane of their head-lights, they saw that men in khaki clung to its sides, were packed in its tonneau, were swaying from its running boards. Before they could find their voices a motor cycle, driven as though the angel of death were at the wheel, shaved their mud-guard and, in its turn, vanished into the night. “Things are looking up!” said Ford. “Where is our next stop? As I said before, what we want is a live one.” Herbert pressed his electric torch against his road map. “We are next billed to appear,” he said, “about a quarter of a mile from here, at the signal-tower of the Great Eastern Railroad, where we visit the night telegraph operator and give him the surprise party of his life.” The three men had mounted the steps of the signal-tower so quietly that, when the operator heard them, they already surrounded him. He saw three German soldiers with fierce upturned mustaches, with flat, squat helmets, with long brown rifles. They saw an anæmic, pale-faced youth without a coat or collar, for the night was warm, who sank back limply in his chair and gazed speechless with wide-bulging eyes. In harsh, guttural tones Ford addressed him. “You are a prisoner,” he said. “We take over this office in the name of the German Emperor. Get out!”