himself on the main platform; he actually passed a sergeant and some Bavarian soldiers, bent on recapturing the escaped prisoner, rushing wildly for the same stairs.
None paid heed to him as he lumbered along, swinging the lamp.
A small crowd of officers, among them the youthful prince in the silver Pickel-haube, had collected near the broken window and now open door of the waiting-room from which the “spy” had vanished. Within was the fat lieutenant of reserves, gesticulating violently at a pallid sentry.
The prince was laughing. “He can’t get away,” he was saying. “A bold rascal. He must be quieted with a bayonet-thrust. That’s the best way to inoculate an Englishman with German Kultur.”
Of course this stroke of rare wit evoked much mirth. Meanwhile, Dalroy was turning the key in the lock which held Irene Beresford in safe keeping until Von Halwig had discharged certain pressing duties as a staff officer.
The girl, who was seated, gave him a terrified glance when he entered, but dropped her eyes immediately until she became aware that this rough-looking visitor was altering the key. Dalroy then realised by her startled movement that his appearance had brought fresh terror to an already overburthened heart. Hitherto, so absorbed was he in his project, he had not given a thought to the fact that he would offer a sinister apparition.
“Don’t scream, or change your position, Miss Beresford,” he said quietly in English. “It is I, Captain Dalroy. We have a chance of escape. Will you take the risk?”
The answer came, brokenly it is true, but with the girl’s very soul in the words. “Thank God!” she murmured. “Risk? I would sacrifice ten lives, if I had them, rather than remain here.”
Somehow, that was the sort of answer Dalroy expected from her. She sought no explanation of his bizarre and extraordinary garb. It was all-sufficient for her that he should have come back. She trusted him implicitly, and the low, earnest words thrilled him to the core.
He saw through the window that no one was paying any attention to this apartment. Possibly, the only people who knew that it contained an Englishwoman as a prisoner were Von Halwig and the infuriated lieutenant of reserves.
Jumping on to a chair, Dalroy promptly twisted an electric bulb out of its socket, and plunged the room in semi-darkness, which he increased by hiding the hand-lamp in the folds of his blouse. Given time, no doubt, a dim light would be borrowed from the platform and the windows overlooking the square; in the sudden gloom, however, the two could hardly distinguish each other.
“I have contrived to escape, in a sense,” said Dalroy; “but I could not bear the notion of leaving you to your fate. You can either stop here and take your chance, or come with me. If we are caught together a second time these brutes will show you no mercy. On the other hand, by remaining, you may be fairly well treated, and even sent home soon.”
He deemed himself in honour bound to put what seemed then a reasonable alternative before her. He did truly believe, in that hour, that Germany might, indeed, wage war inflexibly, but with clean hands, as befitted a nation which prided itself on its ideals and warrior spirit. He was destined soon to be enlightened as to the true significance of the Kultur which a jack-boot philosophy offers to the rest of the world.
But Irene Beresford’s womanly intuition did not err. One baleful gleam from Von Halwig’s eyes had given her a glimpse of infernal depths to which Dalroy was blind as yet. “Not only will I come with you; but, if you have a pistol or a knife, I implore you to kill me before I am captured again,” she said.
Here, then, was no waste of words, but rather the ring of finely-tempered steel. Dalroy unlocked the door, and looked out. To the right and in front the platform was nearly empty. On the left the group of officers was crowding into the waiting-room, since some hint of unfathomable mystery had been wafted up from the Bavarians in the courtyard, and the slim young prince, curious as a street lounger, had gone to the window to investigate.
Dalroy stood in the doorway. “Pull down your veil, turn to the right, and keep close to the wall,” he said. “Don’t run! Don’t even hurry! If I seem to lag behind, speak sharply to me in German.”
She obeyed without hesitation. They had reached the end of the covered-in portion of the station when a sentry barred the way. He brought his rifle with fixed bayonet to the “engage.”
“It is forbidden,” he said.
“What is forbidden?” grinned Dalroy amiably, clipping his syllables, and speaking in the roughest voice he could assume.
“You cannot pass this way.”
“Good! Then I can go home to bed. That will be better than cleaning engines.”
Fortunately, a Bavarian regiment was detailed for duty at Aix-la-Chapelle that night; the sentry knew where the engine-sheds were situated no more than Dalroy. Further, he was not familiar with the Aachen accent.
“Oh, is that it?” he inquired.
“Yes. Look at my cap!”
Dalroy held up the lantern. The official lettering was evidently convincing.
“But what about the lady?”
“She’s my wife. If you’re here in half-an-hour she’ll bring you some coffee. One doesn’t leave a young wife at home with so many soldiers about.”
“If you both stand chattering here neither of you will get any coffee,” put in Irene emphatically.
The Bavarian lowered his rifle. “I’m relieved at two o’clock,” he said with a laugh. “Lose no time, schœne Frau. There won’t be much coffee on the road to Liège.”
The girl passed on, but Dalroy lingered. “Is that where you’re going?” he asked.
“Yes. We’re due in Paris in three weeks.”
“Lucky dog!”
“Hans, are you coming, or shall I go on alone?” demanded Irene.
“Farewell, comrade, for a little ten minutes,” growled Dalroy, and he followed.
An empty train stood in a bay on the right, and Dalroy espied a window-cleaner’s ladder in a corner. “Where are you going, woman?” he cried.
His “wife” was walking down the main platform which ended against the wall of a signal-cabin, and there might be insuperable difficulties in that direction.
“Isn’t this the easiest way?” she snapped.
“Yes, if you want to get run over.”
Without waiting for her, he turned, shouldered the ladder, and made for a platform on the inner side of the bay. A ten-foot wall indicated the station’s boundary. Irene ran after him. Within a few yards they were hidden by the train from the sentry’s sight.
“That was clever of you!” she whispered breathlessly.
“Speak German, even when you think we are alone,” he commanded.
The platform curved sharply, and the train was a long one. When they neared the engine they saw three men standing there. Dalroy at once wrapped the lamp in a fold of his blouse, and leaped into the black shadow cast by the wall, which lay athwart the flood of moonlight pouring into the open part of the station. Quick to take the cue, it being suicidal to think of bamboozling local railway officials, Irene followed. Kicking off the clumsy sabots, Dalroy bade his companion pick them up, ran back some thirty yards, and placed the ladder against the wall. Mounting swiftly, he found, to his great relief, that some sheds with low-pitched roofs were ranged beneath; otherwise, the height of the wall, if added to the elevation of the station generally above the external ground level, might well have proved disastrous.
“Up you come,” he said, seating himself astride the coping-stones, and holding the top of the ladder.
Irene was soon perched there too. He pulled up the ladder, and lowered it to a roof.
“Now, you grab hard in case it slips,” he said.
Disdaining the rungs, he slid down. He had hardly gathered