There was once an artillery brigade billeted in a house two miles or so behind the lines.  All the inhabitants of the house had fled, for the village had been heavily bombarded.  Only a girl had had the courage to remain and do hostess to the English.  She was so fresh and so charming, so clever in her cookery, and so modest in her demeanour that all the men of the brigade headquarters fell madly in love with her.  They even quarrelled.  Now this brigade was suffering much from espionage.  The guns could not be moved without the Germans knowing their new position.  No transport or ammunition limbers were safe from the enemy’s guns.  The brigade grew mightily indignant.  The girl was told by her numerous sweethearts what was the matter.  She was angry and sympathetic, and swore that through her the spy should be discovered.  She swore the truth.

One night a certain lewd fellow of the baser sort pursued the girl with importunate pleadings.  She confessed that she liked him, but not in that way.  He left her and stood sullenly by the door.  The girl took a pail and went down into the cellar to fetch up a little coal, telling the man with gentle mockery not to be so foolish.  This angered him, and in a minute he had rushed after her into the cellar, snorting with disappointed passion.  Of course he slipped on the stairs and fell with a crash.  The girl screamed.  The fellow, his knee bruised, tried to feel his way to the bottom of the stairs and touched a wire.  Quickly running his hand along the wire he came to a telephone.  The girl rushed to him, and, clasping his knees, offered him anything he might wish, if only he would say nothing.  I think he must have hesitated for a moment, but he did not hesitate long.  The girl was shot.

Full of this suspiciously melodramatic story I caught sight of a mysterious document fastened by nails to the house opposite the inn.  It was covered with coloured signs which, whatever they were, certainly did not form letters or make sense in any way.  I examined the document closely.  One sign looked like an aeroplane, another like a house, a third like the rough drawing of a wood.  I took it to a certain officer, who agreed with me that it appeared suspicious.

We carried it to the staff-captain, who pointed out very forcibly that it had been raining lately, that colour ran, that the signs left formed portions of letters.  I demanded the owner of the house upon which the document had been posted.  She was frightened and almost unintelligible, but supplied the missing fragments.  The document was a crude election appeal.  Being interpreted it read something like this:—­

     SUPPORT LEFEVRE.  HE IS NOT A LIAR LIKE DUBOIS.

Talking of spies, here is another story.  It is true.

Certain wires were always being cut.  At length a patrol was organised.  While the operator was talking there was a little click and no further acknowledgment from the other end.  The patrol started out and caught the man in the act of cutting a second wire.  He said nothing.