They had been so interested in one another and in the cut wire that none of them had noticed the practically noiseless approach of a great grey motor car, with all lights out, that had stolen up on them.  But now, with a groan, Dick and Jack both knew it for one of the Bray Park cars.  So, after all, Dick’s flight had been in vain.  He had escaped the guards of Bray Park once, only to walk straight into this new trap.  And, worst of all, there would be no Jack Young outside to help this time, for Jack was a captive, too.  Only —­ he was not!

At the thought Dick had turned, to discover that Jack was not beside him.  It was very dark, but in a moment he caught the tiniest movement over the hedge, and saw a spot a little darker than the rest of the ground about it.  Jack, he saw at once had taken the one faint chance there was, dropped down, and crawled away, trusting that their captures had not counted their party, and might not miss the boy.

Just in time he slipped through a hole in the hedge.  The next moment one of the headlights in the grey motor flashed out, almost blinding the the rest of them, as they held up their hands.  In its light from the car, four men, well armed with revolvers, were revealed.

“Donnerwetter!” said one.  “I made sure there were four of them!  So!  Vell, it is enough.  Into the car with them!”

No pretence about this chap!  He was German, and didn’t care who knew it.  He was unlike the man who had disguised himself as an English officer, at the house of the heliograph, but had betrayed himself and set this whole train of adventure going by his single slip and fall from idiomatic English that Harry Fleming’s sharp ears had caught.

Dick was thrilled, somehow, even while he was being roughly bundled toward the motor.  If these fellows were as bold as this, cutting telephone wires, driving about without lights, giving up all secrecy and pretence, it must mean that the occasion for which they had come was nearly over.  It must mean that their task, whatever it might be, was nearly accomplished —­ the blow they had come to strike was about ready to be driven home.

“‘Ere, who are you a shovin’ off?” complained one of the linemen, as he was pushed toward the motor.  He made some effort to resist but the next moment he pitched forward.  One of the Germans had struck him on the head with the butt of his revolver.  It was a stunning blow, and the man was certainly silenced.  Dick recoiled angrily from the sight, but he kept quiet.  He knew he could do no good by interfering.  But the sheer, unnecessary brutality of it shocked and angered him.  He felt that Englishmen, or Americans, would not treat a prisoner so —­ especially one who had not been fighting.  These men were not even soldiers, they were spies, which made the act the more outrageous.  They were serving their country, however, for all that, and that softened Dick’s feeling toward them a little.  True, they were performing their service in a sneaky, underhanded way that went against his grain.  But it was service, and he knew that England, too, probably used spies, forced to do so for self-defence.  He realized the value of the spy’s work, and the courage that work required.  If these men were captured they would not share the fate of those surrendering in battle but would be shot, or hung, without ceremony.