“Halt,” cried a voice of authority.

The one glimpse he had caught of the uniform had conveyed to Fleck the welcome fact that the party surrounding him were Americans—­cavalry troopers.

“Chief Fleck,” he announced, by way of identification.  “Who are you?”

A tall figure in officer’s clothes sprang up on the running board and peered into Fleck’s face.

“Thank God, Chief,” he said, “that it’s you.”

“Colonel Brook-White,” cried Fleck in amazement, recognizing the voice as that of one of the officers in charge of the British Government’s Intelligence Service in America.  “What are you doing here?”

“Trying to round up some bally German spies,” explained Brook-White.

“I’ve beaten you to it,” cried Fleck, with a note of triumph in his tone.  “I’ve got them all here in shackles.”

“Good,” said Brook-White delightedly.  “I was fearful I’d be too late.  There was delay in getting a message to me.  As soon as I had it, I tried to reach you and couldn’t.  I dared not wait but dashed up here in my car.  I knew there were some American troopers camped near here, and I persuaded the commander to detail some of his men to help me.  Did you really capture the Hoff chap, old Otto?”

“He’s better than captured,” said Fleck.  “He’s lying dead back there in the house.”

“Good,” cried Brook-White.  “He was infernally dangerous according to my advices—­but Captain Seymour—­where is he?  Wasn’t he working with you?”

“Captain Seymour?” cried Fleck in astonishment.  “I never heard of him.  Who’s Captain Seymour?”

“He’s one of my chaps,” explained Brook-White.  “Wasn’t it he who steered you up here?”

“I should say not,” said Fleck emphatically.

“Good Lord,” cried the British colonel excitedly.  “You don’t suppose those bloody Boches got him at the last—­after all he’s been through?  I hope he’s safe.”

“Don’t worry, Colonel Brook-White,” came the calm voice of Frederic Hoff from the rear seat.  “Chief Fleck has me here safe in shackles with the other prisoners.”

“God,” cried Fleck, in astonished perplexity.  “Is Frederic Hoff a Britisher—­one of your men?”

“Rather,” said Brook-White.  “Chief Fleck, may I present Captain Sir Frederic Seymour, of the Royal Kentish Dragoons.”

But Fleck was too busy just then to heed the introduction, or to pay attention to the muttered “Donnerwetters” of indignation that burst from the lips of his other prisoners.

Jane Strong had fainted dead away against his shoulder.

CHAPTER XVIII

WHAT THE PACKET CONTAINED

“But,” said Jane, “I can’t understand it yet.  How did you, a British officer, happen to be living with old Otto Hoff?  How did you ever get him to trust you with his terrible secrets?”

Captain Seymour chortled gleefully.  Now that he was arrayed in proper British clothes, once more comfortable in the uniform of his regiment and had his monocle in place and was with Jane again, everything looked radiantly different.  Even his speech no longer retained its international quality but now was tinctured with London mannerisms.