count hertz von peilfell, on finding himself alone under lock and key, began to rave in genuine teutonic style. he realized that he had made a mess of things generally. his calculated plans had gone wrong simply through a careless lack of caution, and now he was confronted by the prospect of ending his career in front of a british firing-squad.

the count was a man who did not hesitate to take certain risks, but invariably he weighed up his chances. cool and calculating, he was not one who would embark upon a project for the mere love of adventure.

his record as an airman was well known to the r.a.f. the latter admired his audacity, although they had no love for the means he employed. he was typical of the brute force of prussianism—his mission as an airman was to destroy, ruthlessly and methodically, and, when the odds were against him, his gaudily-painted biplane was not to be seen aloft.

so when the time came that the hun in the air was "having a sticky time all round", von peilfell discreetly kept clear of the british flying-men. he became an instructor, teaching german quirks to fly in machines that, by nature of the shortage of certain raw material in hunland, could never hope to hold their own against the magnificently-constructed and powerfully-engined craft bearing the distinctive red, white, and blue concentric circles.

then came rumours—rumours that were based upon solid facts—that the british and french airmen were bent upon reprisals for wanton night-bombing of undefended towns. berlin was to be the supreme objective of the numerous squadrons of huge bombing-'planes that were being concentrated on the western front.

in desperation the german high command called a conference, to which the "star" airmen of the imperial air service were summoned. the return of the boomerang was a prospect that the apostles of kultur not only failed to appreciate, but dreaded. at all costs the peril must be staved off—either by counter-active measures or by hypocritical appeals to neutrals, or, as a last resource, by applying for an armistice.

it was von peilfell's chance. a popularity hunter, he knew that the cessation of his aerial achievements was rapidly placing him on the list of fallen idols. the pulse of the german populace—the picture-post-card dealers—told him this. where once a hundred thousand photographs of the "sky hussars" were sold, now barely a thousandth part of that number were disposed of.

to regain his vanished prestige, the count suggested a scheme, namely, that he should enter hostile territory disguised, and find out where these mysterious battleplanes were concentrating, and also note the details of their construction.

von peilfell had carefully counted the risk. he was a fluent speaker of english. his accent was almost faultless. several years spent in england, including a period at a public school, had given him a remarkable insight into the life of an englishman, while in pre-war days he had made the acquaintance of several british officers, with the sole view of making good use of the knowledge thus obtained when "der tag" dawned.

having obtained official sanction, von peilfell proceeded to put his plan into execution. a slightly-damaged eg biplane had fallen behind the german lines, and its pilot had been captured. the machine was repaired; the count, dressed in the complete uniform of the captured airman, set out just before daybreak to attempt his hazardous errand.

the german head-quarters staff knew exactly the aerodrome from whence the captured eg machine had come. the count, therefore, decided to give that locality a wide berth, and, by assuming the r?le of a pilot who had lost his way and had been compelled to descend owing to engine failure, make his way to le tenetoir aerodrome, where, if his information proved correct, he would find the giant aeroplanes making ready for their flight to berlin.

but when he alighted in view of the car carrying lieutenant derek daventry, r.a.f., he unwittingly committed two grave errors. he was unaware that derek, who was in the habit of piloting one of the somewhat small number of eg's, immediately took a keen professional interest in the apparently crippled machine. he was also ignorant of the fact that derek was his antagonist on the occasion when both british and german pilots were unable to exchange a single shot; nor did he know that when he raised his goggles and grinned at his rival, that grimace had been indelibly printed upon derek's memory. these two instances led to the count finding himself under lock and key in a dug-out that served as a cell.

like a caged bird von peilfell paced to and fro. he realized that his case was a desperate one, and that his shrift would be short; a drumhead court-martial at eight in the evening would be followed by execution at dawn.

for nearly an hour he maintained his restless promenade, a prey to dejection. the dug-out was barely twenty feet in length and seven in breadth, so that there was little room for exercise. he tried to formulate a plan of escape, but none seemed feasible. the place was unlighted, save by the dim glimmer of a candle set in a stable lantern. ventilation was provided by means of a length of bent stove-pipe passing between two of the massive girders supporting the concreted and sand-bagged roof. the walls were heavily timbered, and, upon examination, found to be backed by cement. a flight of steep and narrow steps gave access to the open air, but at the top was a massive oaken door. incidentally, the huns who had constructed the dug-out, had removed the door of the abbaye de ste marie, at le tenetoir, to serve a similar purpose for this subterranean retreat.

the heat was stifling, for, outside, the autumnal air was damp and humid. von peilfell began to feel oppressed by the weight of the leather flying-coat. mechanically he unbuckled the straps, and threw the garment on the wooden bench that served as a seat and a bed. as he did so his eye caught sight of a glint of scarlet. the lawful owner of the flying-coat had been guilty of a breach of discipline by investing in several red-silk handkerchiefs, whereas, by virtue of an air ministry order, he should have provided himself with those of a khaki colour.

the count consulted his wristlet watch—a nurnberg timepiece studded with jewels. it was a gift from a number of his admirers when he was at the zenith of his fame. he found himself wondering why his captors had not taken it from him. the germans invariably plundered their captives. perhaps these englanders would not do so until he was dead. he shivered at the thought. in another eight hours all would be over.

then his thoughts went back to the square of scarlet silk. even as he gazed dully at the sheeny fabric an inspiration flashed across his mind. he glanced at his watch once more. in another ten minutes or so he would be visited either by the sergeant or the corporal of the guard.

grasping the handkerchief, he tore the silk into ragged strips. his next step was to place the lantern on the edge of the plank-bed, so that the strongest possible light fell on the floor. then, holding the torn handkerchief, he waited, every sense on the alert, ready to act the moment he heard sounds of the visiting guard.

the remaining interval seemed interminable. through the securely-fastened door he could hear the howling of the wind. it ought to have been a bright moonlight night, for, according to the calendar, it was the time of full moon. he hoped that the shrieking, moaning wind meant a cloud-laden sky and also a downpour of rain.

selecting four of the strongest strips of silk, von peilfell knotted them into a long loop. this he hid behind the bench, reflecting that if his first plan went astray there was material at hand to enable him to cheat the firing-squad. he found himself wondering which was the least painful course—for he was a coward when it came to having pain inflicted on himself—to face the muzzles of a dozen rifles, or to end his own life by strangulation.

his reflections were interrupted by the tramp of heavily-shod feet. the visiting n.c.o. was about to enter the dug-out.

noiselessly the count placed himself on the earthern floor, and laid a bright-scarlet strip of silk round his throat. then with outstretched arms he waited, scarce daring to breathe.

a key grated in the door. the oak, swollen by the wet, refused at the first attempt to yield to the corporal's efforts. von peilfell heard the man swear at the recalcitrant door. then, with a groaning noise, the door swung open on its rusty hinges. "where the——" ejaculated the corporal; then, turning to the two men who accompanied him, he shouted excitedly:

"the boche 'as cut his bloomin' throat! run, you blokes, for all you're worth, and fetch the doctor."

the men obeyed promptly, while the corporal, setting his lantern on the floor, approached to examine the prostrate form of the prisoner. it was an act of mere curiosity on his part. the n.c.o., who less than twelve months ago was a meek and mild grocer in a quiet country town, had seen plenty of ghastly sights during the last six months. the mere sight of a dead hun hardly troubled him. without a tremor he bent over the supposed corpse.

judging that by this time the two men were a hundred yards or more away, von peilfell took prompt action. before the corporal realized that there was plenty of energy in the "dead" man, the count drew up his knee, and, launching out with his right foot, caught the luckless n.c.o. a knock-out blow on the solar plexus.

without a sound the corporal collapsed upon the floor; while the hun, waiting only to place his victim's cap upon his head, ran stealthily up the steps leading to the entrance to the dug-out.

even as he ran the count, in a typically prussian manner, regretted that he was wearing rubber-soled flying-boots. iron-shod footgear, he reflected, would have been more effective when he hacked at the luckless corporal. in order to carry out a test effectually, it was necessary to do it brutally. that is the hun method of thoroughness.

through the open door of the dug-out and into the darkness von peilfell ran. dazzled, even by the comparatively-feeble light within, he could hardly see his hand before his face in the rain-laden, inky blackness without. he paused, fearful lest he should blunder blindly into some obstacle, and rubbed his eyes vigorously with his knuckles. then, pulling his recently-acquired cap well down over his bullet head, he settled down to a rapid walk.

it had been part of his training always to take stock of his surroundings, and the knowledge thus obtained when a few hours previously he had walked into le tenetoir aerodrome was now of inestimable service. carefully avoiding the sentry of the gate, and crawling through a barbed-wire fence, he gained the open, devastated country, for the time being a free man again. but between him and the german lines lay fifty miles of ground firmly held by the victorious allies.