They came to a fair-sized market-town, then two villages and then a town where they had to stop and show the car's papers. It was past eleven. Then once more they were driving along country lanes which ran through a series of little woods whose trees lit up as they passed. At that moment, the light of the lamps began to fail. Karl slackened speed. He growled: "You dolt, can't you even keep your lamps alight? Have you got any carbide?" Paul did not reply. Karl went on cursing his luck. Suddenly, he put on the brakes, with an oath: "You blasted idiot! One can't go on like this. . . . Here, stir your stumps and light up." Paul sprang from his seat, while the car drew up by the road-side. The time had come to act. He first attended to the lamps, keeping an eye upon the spy's movements and taking care to stand outside the rays. Karl got down, opened the door of the car, and started a conversation which Paul could not hear. Then he came back to where Paul was: "Well, pudding-head, haven't you done yet?" Paul had his back turned to him, attending to his work and waiting for the propitious moment when the spy, coming two steps nearer, would be within his reach. A minute elapsed. He clenched his fists. He foresaw the exact movement which he would have to make and was on the point of making it, when suddenly he felt himself seized round the body from behind and brought to the ground without being able to offer the least resistance. "Thunder and lightning!" cried the spy, holding him down with his knee. "So that's why you wouldn't answer? . . . It struck me somehow that you were behaving queerly. . . . And then I never gave it another thought. . . . It was the lamp, just now, that threw a light on your side-face. . . . But who is the fellow I've got hold of? Some dog of a Frenchman, may be?" Paul had stiffened his muscles and believed for a moment that he would succeed in escaping from the other's grip. The enemy's strength was yielding; Paul gradually seemed to master him; and he exclaimed: "Yes, a Frenchman, Paul Delroze, the one you used to try and kill, the husband of Élisabeth, your victim. . . . Yes, it's I; and I know who you are: you're Laschen, the sham Belgian; you're Karl the spy." He stopped. The spy, who had only weakened his effort to draw a dagger from his belt, was now raising it against him: "Ah, Paul Delroze! . . . God's truth, this'll be a lucky trip! . . . First the husband and then the wife. . . . Ah, so you came running into my clutches! . . . Here, take this, my lad! . . ." Paul saw the gleam of a blade flashing above his face. He closed his eyes, uttering Élisabeth's name. Another second; and three shots rang out in rapid succession. Some one was firing from behind the group formed by the two adversaries. The spy swore a hideous oath. His grip became relaxed. The weapon in the hand trembled and he fell flat on the ground, moaning: