“Now then, you young rascal, I’ve got you.  What does all this mean?”

“That’s just what I’d like to know,” exclaimed Roy indignantly, brushing the gravel out of his smarting eyes, “I’ve been made prisoner and—.”

The officer’s astonished voice interrupted him.

“What!  Do you mean to try to lie out of it?  Didn’t you just hand the plans of the aeroplane over to that representative of a foreign government whom Mr. Mortlake is now chasing?”

Roy looked at the other as if he thought he had gone suddenly mad, as well he might.

“I don’t understand you,” he gasped.  “What is all this—­a joke?  It’s a very poor one if it is.”

“I’ll give you a chance to explain,” said the officer grimly, tightening his hold on Roy’s collar, “as things stand at present, I believe you to be as black a young traitor as ever wore shoe leather.”

The world swam before Roy’s eyes.  He sensed, for the first time, an inkling of the diabolical web that had been spun about him.

But it is time that we retraced our footsteps a little and return to events which occurred after the lieutenant had been picked up by appointment in Sandy Beach.  In the automobile which called for him were seated Mr. Harding, whom he already knew slightly from meeting him at the aeroplane plant, and Mortlake himself.

“This is a very unfortunate business, hey?” croaked old Harding, as they spun along the road to the place where Mortlake, who was driving, declared Roy had made an appointment to meet the foreign spy.

“It is worse than that, sir.  It is deplorable,” the officer had said.  And he meant it, too.  He had hardly been able to eat his dinner for thinking over the extraordinary situation.

But the auto sped rapidly on.  Now it had passed the last scattering houses outside the village, and was racing along a lonely country road.  Finally, it turned off, and entered a branch thoroughfare which led from the main track.

All this time but little had been said.  Each occupant of the machine was busied with his own thoughts, and in the lieutenant’s case, at any rate, they were not of the pleasantest.

The road into which they turned was little more than a track, with a high, grass-grown ridge in the centre.  It was a lonesome spot, and certainly seemed retired enough to suit any plotters who might wish to transact their business unobserved.

“Bother such sneaky bits of work,” thought the young officer to himself, as they rushed onward through the darkness.  “I feel like a cheap detective, or somebody equally low and degraded.  It’s unmanly, and—­oh, well! it’s in the line of duty, I suppose, or hanged if I would have anything to do with it.  Mortlake showed up as more of a gentleman in the matter than I’d have given him credit for.  He seems to be genuinely cut up over the whole nasty mess.  Well he may be, too.”

As described in another chapter, the sky was overcast with hurrying clouds, which, from time to time, allowed a flood of moonlight to filter through.  By one of these temporary periods of light, Lieut.  Bradbury was able to perceive that they were in a sort of lane with high hedges on each side.