A NEST OF SPIES
Neither of the air service boys had any doubts now with regard to the
character of the grounds they were invading at dead of night. It must be
a private estate. Once it may have been kept up through a lavish
expenditure of money, but of late years things had evidently been
allowed to grow more or less wild.
Tom was following what appeared to be the drive. It was not difficult to
do so, because of the moonlight that sifted down through the bare
branches of the neighboring ornamental trees, now destitute of foliage.
The house was presently discovered. Just as Tom anticipated, it was a
rather large building, that might even be called a mansion, or chateau.
It lay half buried amidst a prodigious growth of trees and bushes.
Jack fancied there was a sort of haunted air about the place, something
uncanny, as he told himself. And then those sobs or screams could not be
forgotten.
"Let's go around first, and see what lies in the rear," whispered Tom.
He had an object in view when he said this. Having noted carefully their
route in coming from the open field where they had left their big plane,
Tom knew that the window from whence the sobbing had come must be either
at the back of the house, or on the eastern side.
He was heading in that quarter now, and looking for signs of a light in
some upper window. This he discovered speedily, and pointed it out to
his companion.
"Whoever was crying, Jack, must be up there," he said, close to the
other's ear so as to insure safety.
"But how can we find out?" queried Jack. "If you say the word I'm
willing to climb up, and learn what's wrong."
"Not yet. We must take a turn around, and pick up more knowledge of this
place, as well as the people who live in the house."
"Then why not creep up and look in at that lower window?" suggested
Jack, pointing as he spoke. "I've seen a shadow passing back and forth,
as if some person were walking up and down like a caged tiger. It's a
man, too, Tom, because I could easily make out his figure, a tall man to
boot."
Tom led the way, with Jack at his heels. They managed to crawl through
the bushes that cluttered the ground close to the wall of the stone
building, and were at length in a position to raise themselves from
their knees and peep under the drawn shade.
Jack was the first to look. Almost instantly he drew back with a low
ejaculation of wonder. Tom, spurred on by this fact, also raised his
head until his eyes were on a level with the small strip of open space
just below the shade. He too had a thrill at what he saw.
"I feel as if I must be dreaming!" whispered Jack huskily. "Tell me, is
that man in there really Carl Potzfeldt, the good-for-nothing guardian
of little Bessie Gleason?"
"It's no other than our old acquaintance of the Atlantic liner,"
admitted Tom, though he himself had some difficulty in believing the
startling fact.
This man, whom they felt sure was a German spy, had last been seen
descending the gangway from the steamer at an English port, with Bessie
Gleason, his pretty little ward, held by the hand, as though he feared
she might try to run away from him.
Many times had Jack tried to picture the conditions under which he might
run across Carl Potzfeldt again; but no matter what line of flight his
imagination took he certainly had never dreamed of such a thing as this.
Here in the heart of Lorraine, many miles back of the German front, on a
moonlight night, and in a lonely country house, he once more beheld the
object of his former detestation.
He clutched his chum by the arm almost fiercely.
"Well, that settles it, Tom!" he muttered savagely.
"Settles what?" whispered the other, for the window was closed, and
there did not seem to be any chance of their low-voiced exchange of
opinions being overheard.
"I don't leave here until I've seen _her_. For if he's at this
place it stands to reason Bessie must be here also. Tom, that was Bessie
we heard sobbing, I just know it now."
Tom had already jumped to the same conclusion. Nevertheless he did not
mean to let it interfere with his customary caution. Nothing was to be
gained through reckless and hurried action. They must go slowly and
carefully. This house by the roadside on the way to Metz he concluded
might be a nest of spies, perhaps the headquarters of a vast network of
plotters.
"Hark! There's a car coming along the road and stopping at the gates
here!" he told his chum, as he drew Jack down beside him. "We must be
more careful how we look in lighted windows. If any one chanced to be
abroad in the grounds we'd be seen, and perhaps fired on."
They crept from the vicinity of the window. Tom led the way toward the
front of the house, as if he had an object in view. The car was now
coming in along the crooked drive. They could see its one light, for
economy in the use of all means for illumination was a cardinal feature
of the German military orders in those days of scarcity.
The car stopped in front of the house, and a man jumped out. Tom saw
that he wore a uniform of some sort, and judged that he might be a
captain, at least. There was a second figure on the front seat, also in
the dark-green garb of a soldier, but a private possibly.
The two young Americans crouched amidst the dense bushes and listened.
So many thrilling things were happening in rapid succession that their
pulses beat with unwonted speed.
Before this the sound of the approaching car must have reached the ears
of the man they had seen pacing the floor in the spacious room that
looked like a library. There were many books in cases and on shelves,
while pictures and boars' heads decorated the walls.
Potzfeldt opened the door just as the officer alighted, and there was an
exchange of stiff military salutations. Tom discovered that his guess
was a true one, for the man of the house addressed the other as
"Captain."
It was too bad that they spoke in German as they stood by the open door.
Jack for once bitterly regretted the fact that he had never taken up the
study of that language when at school, as he might have done easily
enough. It would have paid him handsomely just then, he believed.
The two men talked rapidly. Apparently the officer was asking questions,
and demanding something, for in another minute Carl Potzfeldt took an
object out of a bill book and handed it to the other. As near as the
watchers could make out this object was a slip of paper, very small, but
handled as though it might be exceedingly precious.
Jack had a sudden recollection of a correspondingly minute slip of paper
which he and Tom had found hidden in that little receptacle attached to
the leg of the homing pigeon the latter had shot.
More talk followed between the two men. Presently the man turned and
hastened inside again. He had left the door standing open, however, with
the German officer waiting as if for something he had come after besides
the scrap of paper.
Jack knew now that the man in uniform was from the headquarters of the
Crown Prince. That accounted for the numerous marks of car tires which
Tom had discovered on the drive. This lonely house by the roadside on
the way to Metz was a nest of spies. Perhaps Carl Potzfeldt might be the
chief, through whom negotiations were conducted and lesser agents sent
forth.
Jack had got no further in his deduction when he saw the tall man
returning. He carried a bundle that was wrapped in a cloth, and depended
from his hand by means of a heavy cord, or some sort of handle.
This he set down on the landing, while he passed further words with the
captain; and now it was Potzfeldt who asked the questions, as though he
wished to learn how things were going at the front.
Between queries and guttural replies the hidden air service boys heard a
series of sounds that gave them sudden light. Jack's hand pressed on
Tom's arm, as though in this manner he wished to call the attention of
the other to the noise.
Many times both of them had listened to similar sounds while watching
some pigeon on the barn roof dare a rival to combat, or when wooing his
mate. And as they could easily trace this to the covered package which
Carl Potzfeldt had just brought out of the house, the meaning was
obvious.
Of course there were pigeons in that cage, homing pigeons at that, like
the one Tom had shot! Doubtless had that one escaped its tragic fate the
message it carried would have been delivered to the owner of this lonely
house, in turn to be handed over to one of the messengers from German
headquarters.
And now the German captain, stooping over, took possession of the cage
containing at least two of the trained birds. They would be carried to
some point from which, on another night, a daring Boche airman would
attempt to take them far back of the French front, to hand over to the
agent who was in communication with the master spy, Carl Potzfeldt.
It was all very simple. Nevertheless it was also amazing to realize how
by what might be called a freak of fate the air service boys had been
enabled to discover these facts. But for the accident to the motor they
would not have dreamed of making a landing short of the aviation field
at Bar-le-Duc. Then, had they not caught that woeful sound of loud
sobbing, the idea of looking around would never have occurred to them.
The officer was now starting back to his car, which would carry him
post-haste to German headquarters, where the fresh message in a cipher
code from beyond the French lines might be translated, and the valuable
information it possibly contained be taken advantage of.
Presently the military chauffeur started to swing around a curve that
would allow them to leave the grounds by the same gates through which
they had entered. The car's course could be followed by the strong ray
its one light threw ahead; and the boys were able to tell when it
reached the road again.
As they expected it returned the same way it had come, probably heading
for the headquarters of the Crown Prince.