"Walk out in this uniform, I suppose. But it'd be risky; I'd be likely to be accosted by other soldiers. I might get an order from an officer. Still, for the time being, it would do. But I must find some other disguise, for the whole garrison will soon be on the lookout for a young chap dressed like a civilian. I was suspicious of that grenadier; I was afraid he had spotted me. Ah, there they go!" More voices reached his ear. The French grenadiers stopped at the head of the stairs and discussed the matter. "Not here--flown through the far window," he heard one say. "Best be after him." "See here, Jacques," came to his ear. "Go down to the main guard and warn them to send round to all the gates. If we don't get the spy here, we'll have him as he attempts to leave. Tell them to search every civilian." There was a clatter outside the cabaret after that, and then silence. Tom peeped out of the door and found the landing empty. He turned, hearing a sound from the bed, to find the sleeper sitting up on one arm, drowsily regarding him from the edge of the curtain which he had drawn aside. "What cheer, comrade!" the fellow gurgled with an inane smile. "Time for parade?" "Not a bit," answered our hero promptly. "Get to sleep again. It'll clear your head. There; I'll draw the curtain." He swung the curtain right across the end of the bed and heard the soldier flop down again on his pillows. Then, once more, he went to the door. There was no one about, though on peering out of the window he saw the landlord standing in the street outside with a curious crowd about him. "Said a spy had been here," he was shouting angrily. "As if I, Francisco, would harbour such an one. A spy indeed! What does an innkeeper have to do with spying?" The crafty fellow did not tell the listeners that he was an agent of the French, the go-between for information of the movements of the British, the men who had come to the country to free himself and his nation from the grip of France. And he scouted the idea that his messenger could have been an Englishman, or the message he brought written by other than the traitor who hid himself in Oporto and hired rascals like himself in the neighbourhood of Wellington's camp. To this Francisco it was out of the question that Tom could be anything but what he represented himself to be. But that others thought differently was certain; for there was a bustle all over the defences. Tom could see squads of men marching swiftly. Mounted messengers galloped here and there, while a double company was massed at the gate by which he had entered. "They've made up their minds that they've a spy here, and that's the end of it," he told himself. "Soon there'll be a call for all the troops, and this fellow here will be bustled out to join 'em. That'll be awkward. What can I do? Ah, let's see what the other rooms contain!"