“Mr. Davis,” he said, “you are free.”

He did not look as disappointed as I knew he would feel if I were free, so I waited for what was to follow.

“You are free,” he said, “under certain conditions.”  The conditions seemed to cheer him.  He recited the conditions.  They were those I had outlined to Major Wurth.  But I am sure Rupert of Hentzau did not guess that.  Apparently, he believed Major Wurth had thought of them, and I did not undeceive him.  For the substitute plan I was not inclined to rob that officer of any credit.  I felt then, and I feel now, that but for him and his interceding for me I would have been left in the road.  Rupert of Hentzau gave me the pass.  It said I must return to Brussels by way of Ath, Enghien, Hal, and that I must report to the military governor on the 26th or “be treated as a spy”—­“so wird er als Spion behandelt.”  The pass, literally translated, reads: 

“The American reporter Davis must at once return to Brussels via Ath, Enghien, Hal, and report to the government at the latest on August 26th.  If he is met on any other road, or after the 26th of August, he will be handled as a spy.  Automobiles returning to Brussels, if they can unite it with their duty, can carry him.”

“Chief of general staff.” 
“Von Gregor, Lieutenant-Colonel.”

Fearing my military education was not sufficient to enable me to appreciate this, for the last time Rupert stuck his forefinger in my stomach and repeated cheerfully:  “And you know what that means.  And you will start,” he added, with a most charming smile, “in three hours.”

He was determined to have his grilled bone.

“At three in the morning!” I cried.  “You might as well take me out and shoot me now!”

“You will start in three hours,” he repeated.

“A man wandering around at that hour,” I protested, “wouldn’t live five minutes.  It can’t be done.  You couldn’t do it.”  He continued to grin.  I knew perfectly well the general had given no such order, and that it was a cat-and-mouse act of Rupert’s own invention, and he knew I knew it.  But he repeated:  “You will start in three hours, Mr. Davis.”

I said:  “I am going to write about this, and I would like you to read what I write.  What is your name?”

He said:  “I am the Baron von”—­it sounded like “Hossfer”—­and, in any case, to that name, care of General de Schwerin of the Seventh Division, I shall mail this book.  I hope the Allies do not kill Rupert of Hentzau before he reads it!  After that!  He would have made a great actor.

They put me in the automobile and drove me back to Ligne and the impromptu cell.  But now it did not seem like a cell.  Since I had last occupied it my chances had so improved that returning to the candle on the floor and the bundles of wheat was like coming home.  Though I did not believe Rupert had any authority to order me into the night at the darkest hour of the twenty-four, I was taking no chances.  My nerve was not in a sufficiently robust state for me to disobey any German.  So, lest I should oversleep, until three o’clock I paced the cell, and then, with all the terrors of a burglar, tiptoed down the stairs.  There was no light, and the house was wrapped in silence.