The cheerful glow was fading from the sky when Don and Bobby Dunlap
started out in quest of mild adventure.
The boys walked leisurely—in fact so leisurely that when Don Hale had
his first glimpse of the three majestic oaks which concealed the old
farmhouse from view, Venus, the evening star, was making its sparkling
presence known in the bluish-gray firmament.
“See here, Donny,” almost whispered Bobby, “I don’t think we ought to
make this a conventional visit. In our present capacity as detectives I
feel that we’re justified in using any means at all to trap this old
codger. Let’s steal up and do a little spying ourselves.”
“Just the scheme,” approved Don.
The two started ahead.
The dreary, deserted aspect of the surroundings, the distant booming of
the guns and the nature of the expedition all combined to produce a
tingling sensation in Don Hale’s nerves.
Now they were approaching the great trees, and the boy caught his first
glimpse of the old dilapidated dwelling. In the dim shadows of the end
of day, with a mystery hovering over it, it assumed in his eyes a weird
and sinister appearance. The gables and chimneys were silhouetted
crisply against the translucent tones of the ever-darkening sky. Don’s
eyes roved over the windows, each a dull and lifeless patch of dark.
Everything gave the impression of utter desolation.
“I don’t believe the mysterious peasant can be around just now,” he
murmured. “And I reckon Bobby’s idea in regard to Jason Hamlin is
altogether wrong.”
Skirting around the old oaks, the two reached an open stretch. However,
there were masses of shrubbery beyond, affording excellent places of
concealment; so, after a moment’s reflection, Don and Bobby continued
straight along, and presently found themselves in the midst of the dense
shadows not far from the entrance to the house.
A few minutes passed, and Don began to feel that such a vigil around a
deserted house had in it something of the absurd and ridiculous.
“Bobby——” he began.
“Sh-h-h-h!” whispered Bobby.
Then silence between the two ensued.
And in all probability it would have remained unbroken for some time but
for the sound of human voices suddenly coming from the house. They were
raised, as though the speakers had become engaged in a heated argument.
The watchers were fairly electrified.
“Aha! What did I tell you!” blurted out Bobby, forgetting caution in his
eagerness and excitement. “I know those voices. They belong to Hamlin
and the spy.”
The altercation grew louder and more turbulent, then quieted down,
until, finally, the quietude was as complete as before.
“I wonder what it all means!” murmured Don. “The mystery deepens. Ah!
Things seem to be developing fast.”
Cautiously, he stepped over to Peur Jamais’ side. “What’s the next move
in the game, Bobby?” he inquired, sotto voce—“the point-of-the-pistol
act?”
“Keep still!” commanded Bobby, fiercely. “I’m trying to hear what they
have to say. Did you catch any of the words?”
“Not one,” answered Don. Then, with a muttered exclamation indicative of
extreme surprise and annoyance, he faced about, nudged Bobby in the
ribs, and exclaimed in a low, suppressed tone: “As I live, some one is
coming along the road. It won’t do to stay here. We’ll be seen.”
“And if we get around on the other side we’ll most likely be observed by
the chaps in the house,” burst out Peur Jamais. “Who in the world could
have expected anything like this? By George! It must be a veritable
spies’ retreat.”
Somewhat precipitously, Bobby began to move around the vegetation, and
Don joined him a moment later on the opposite side.
Peering between the leaves, the latter could soon make out a shadowy
form approaching. But the light was too dim for him to see whether the
man was civilian or soldier. The boy’s interest was aroused to the
highest pitch.
What could this man’s errand be? Evidently he must know the mysterious
peasant and be familiar with the grounds.
“Curious! Curious!” muttered Don.
Expectantly—anxiously, he waited until the man had passed, then began
retracing his steps, with Bobby close at his heels.
When he had resumed his former position, the boy, gazing over the top of
the branches and leaves, was just in time to observe the man disappear
in the dense shadows of the old farmhouse.
“Now what do you think of all this?” almost stuttered Bobby. “Oh, boy,
but I feel kind of sorry for Jasy, though. This night’s work may get him
into a whole pile of trouble.”
He was evidently going to add something more, but the sound of voices
again stopped him. They were no longer raised as if in anger, yet,
nevertheless, the conversation was evidently being carried on with the
greatest seriousness.
And just about this time the two disciples of Sherlock Holmes saw a very
dim light appear in one of the windows of the first floor, which,
flashing in an erratic fashion, rapidly grew stronger, as though some
one were bringing a lamp into the room.
Very soon the last vestige of day had disappeared, and overhead the
stars and constellations were shining and twinkling with that wonderful
brilliancy which they only possess when viewed far from smoke-filled
towns. The boys no longer feared discovery. Night, with all its mystery,
all its weirdness and majesty, was upon them, and though his fellow
pilot was only a few yards away Don could no longer distinguish his
form.
Easy in mind, therefore, they were able to give their undivided
attention to the house. Now and again the light was blotted out, as
figures momentarily passed in front. It was all very interesting,
invoking in the mind thoughts of plots, of mysteries and of the
machinations of spies.
“If we could only hear what they are saying,” groaned Bobby.
“I know a way,” declared Don.
“How?”
“I’m going to crawl right up beneath the window and listen.”
“Bravo, Donny! I’m with you there.”
Carefully as the two proceeded, it was impossible, in the darkness, to
avoid making some noise; and each time both involuntarily halted in
their tracks, half expecting to hear some one come rushing out of the
house to investigate.
“Great Scott!”
The young combat pilot could not repress this exclamation, and, at the
same instant, he heard a low whistle coming from the unseen Bobby close
at hand.
Both had been caused by a peculiar action of one of the occupants of the
room. Lamp in hand, he had approached the window, and, thrusting the
feeble light outside, moved it up and down and sideways several times.
Mystified—puzzled, Don Hale felt that any further advance under the
peculiar circumstances would be entirely too risky, and he was about to
whisper this opinion to Bobby when a very faint sound from the rear
caused him to turn quickly. A peculiar tingling sensation shot through
him. Yet he could not quite explain the reason why. What was it he had
heard?—a footfall? Or, in the excitement, had his imagination been
tricked by the rustling of the vegetation?
In the darkness and mystery of the night the unseen often assumes in the
imagination formidable proportions, carrying with it curious,
undefinable fears.
And while Don Hale stood there, irresolute, his ears distinctly caught
the sound of footsteps. Then followed a sharp, metallic click.
A stream of whitish light was fantastically streaking across the ground
toward the boys.
An involuntary exclamation escaped Don’s lips. He felt himself almost
shivering.
But a few paces away stood a man. And, clearly, the electric torch which
he carried was seeking them out. What was the meaning of it all? How had
they been so unerringly tracked?
Nearer and nearer came the brilliant white rays; then leaving the ground
they shot upward, wavered forth and back erratically and presently fell
squarely upon his face.
“Make no move, Messieurs!” exclaimed a strong, firm voice. “You are
under arrest!”
“Under arrest!” gasped Don, literally astounded. “Who—who are you?”
“I don’t—I don’t understand!” quavered Bobby Dunlap. Rather feebly,
sepulchrally he echoed Don Hale’s query: “Who are you?”
The white light suddenly described a circle in the air, and flashed for
one brief, solitary instant, upon a silver shield. The man was holding
his coat open, thus allowing it to be seen.
“What—what does this mean?” stuttered Peur Jamais, while Don Hale, more
surprised, more nonplused than he had ever been in his life, vainly
strove to see the features of the mysterious person before them.
“It means that, as a member of the French secret service, I am carrying
out my orders,” came the astonishing rejoinder. “Let me repeat: you are
under arrest.”
“But why? What for?” almost exploded Bobby, who had found his voice and
nerve. “You have made some extraordinary mistake. Aha! Now I think I
know what it means—you’ve got the wrong people, that’s it. Those you
are seeking are in that house,—in that house, do you understand! Quick,
now, before they get away.”
To further increase Bobby’s agitated and disturbed state of mind the man
uttered a gruff laugh, following this with a loud whistle.
Almost instantly, as if in answer, footsteps sounded, and, on turning
quickly, Don and Bobby saw three men just leaving the house; the beams
from a swinging lantern carried by the foremost now and then throwing
weird splotches of light upon their forms, one instant bringing them out
in sharp relief, the next allowing the darkness to again gather them in
its folds.
“It’s all utterly beyond me,” muttered Don Hale, as he viewed the
strange little procession approaching.
The man with the lantern was the mysterious peasant. And, strangely
enough, he showed no more surprise at finding the two American aviators
so close to his door than if such a visit were the most ordinary and
commonplace thing in the world. One of those accompanying him was Jason
Hamlin; the other the boys had never seen before.
Jason Hamlin was the first to speak.
“And so we meet under rather peculiar circumstances!” he remarked,
harshly. “Let me say, Peur Jamais, that——”
“Let me say something first,” interrupted Bobby, savagely. “Do you know
what he tells us?”—he jerked his finger in the direction of the man
with the electric torch—“that we are under arrest.”
“So am I,” exclaimed Hamlin, in a voice which shook with suppressed
anger.
“You, too, under arrest!” gasped Don. “By Jove, this is certainly a
weird night!”
“And how about that chap parading around in a peasant’s blouse and
wooden shoes?” cried Peur Jamais. “If any one ought to be arrested he’s
the one.” He turned to the secret service man. “I demand that you take
him into custody. He’s an impostor—a—a——”
“Softly—softly, my young friend,” broke in the mysterious peasant. “I
deeply regret that an unpleasant duty had fallen to my lot, particularly
as our country has every reason to be grateful to America.”
He threw open his thin blue blouse, at the same instant raising his
lantern. And as the yellow light shone on another shield precisely
similar to the one which adorned the breast of the other man, both Don
Hale and Bobby Dunlap gave voice to exclamations of the greatest
surprise and wonderment.
“So you, too, belong to the secret service!” cried Don.
“Can—can you beat it!” came from Bobby, weakly.
“I think it would be a rather hard job,” broke in Jason Hamlin.
“And——”
He was interrupted by the third man, who had been a silent witness to
the proceeding.
“Let me put in a word,” he exclaimed, authoritatively. “I also belong to
the secret service; and I wish to say to you young Americans that you
are at liberty to return to the villa—the headquarters of the Lafayette
Escadrille. Under no circumstances, however, are you to leave it until
this affair has been entirely cleared up. I and my camarades are not
here to answer questions. Your captain has already been notified.
Remember, you are technically prisoners. This may seem harsh,
ungrateful, and unappreciative perhaps of the work you have done for
France, but the law knows no sentiment; it is cold and pitiless. Now you
may go.” Addressing his compatriots, he added: “Come, Messieurs.”
Thereupon the three secret service men, with words of adieu, turned
toward the house.
“I never was so angry, so wilted with surprise and disgust in the whole
course of my life!” fumed Bobby Dunlap. “Not here to answer questions,
eh! Never even had the politeness to say why we were pinched. It’s an
outrage—that’s what it is!”
“Prisoners, eh!” remarked Don, with a dry laugh.
“And the comedy has to have still another act!” broke in Jason Hamlin,
ironically. “You are right, Bobby: it is an outrage. But what you mean
is not exactly what I mean.”
And, with this enigmatic remark, the aviator started to make his way
toward the road. The two other “prisoners” followed.