Hammersley wasted no time. He leveled his automatic at the broad back of the driver and his voice rang sharply in German: “I have come here for the dispatches intended for Herr General von Stromberg. You will give them to me at once.” The man who was just bending over toward the timber straightened quickly and turned, reaching for his holster, but the man in the seat of the car, who wore a military cap, was quicker, for there was a report, and a bullet sang close to Hammersley’s ear. A stream of fire came from Hammersley’s automatic; three shots in quick succession, and the man in the car pitched forward in his seat and slid to the floor. And by the time the other man had drawn his pistol, Hammersley had leaped behind a tree and came out of some bushes beyond. The chauffeur fired, but not in Hammersley’s direction. The continuous glare of the light in their eyes had made their vision in the darkness uncertain. “Do you surrender?” shouted Hammersley. The German’s reply was to fire at him again and miss. He still stood in the reflection of the headlight, a bulky silhouette, which made too fair a mark, while Hammersley stood in the shadows of the bushes. Hammersley pitied him. “Surrender!” he repeated. The man was not a coward and rushed blindly toward the voice, shooting again, too close for comfort. “Well, then----” Hammersley said, and fired again. The man stumbled to his knees and then fell prone, his fingers clutching among the leaves. The whole incident had taken less than a minute, and a deathly silence seemed to fall, following the reverberations of the shots. Hammersley stood tensely, listening and peering along the road toward Blaufelden. There was a glow of light at a distance and he could now hear the sound of another machine. Von Stromberg had learned of his escape and with a perfect intuition was coming here directly and fast. The sound of the shots had been heard. There was no time to lose. Hammersley bent over the man on the ground and searched his pockets rapidly. Gloves, matches, a spark plug, tobacco, but no papers. The chauffeur, of course. By main strength he lifted the dead weight of the man in the car and carried him down into the glare of the searchlight. It was a dangerous thing to do, for the lights of the machine from Blaufelden were already swinging through the treetrunks. But he worked quickly and skillfully, tearing open the officer’s gray overcoat and searching his pockets. In the inside pocket of his uniform he found them, a bulky package, and other papers. He read the superscription quickly, “_Sein Excellenz General Graf von Stromberg_.” Then sprang aside out of the glare of the lights at the very moment when the other machine came swinging rapidly around the turn in the road. “The papers are safe?” roared a voice which Hammersley recognized. “_Ja_,” Hammersley replied in a rough tone. “A man tried to stop me and I shot him.” “_Ganz gut!_” “He is here,” shouted Hammersley again.