turn, Carl drew his legs together, his heels clicked, his
hand stuck to his visor.

"I have been in constant communication," said the man with
the beard. "They will be here just before the dawn. Return to
Cromer vand openly from the post-office telegraph your cousin
in London: 'Will meet you to-morrow at the Crystal Palace.'
On receipt of that, in the last edition of all of this
afternoon's papers, he will insert the final advertisement.
Thirty thousand of our own people will read it. They will
know the moment has come!"

As Carl coasted back to Cromer he flashed past many pretty
gardens where, upon the lawns, men in flannels were busy at
tennis or, with pretty ladies, deeply occupied in drinking
tea. Carl smiled grimly. High above him on the sky-line of
the cliff he saw the three strangers he had served at
luncheon. They were driving before them three innocuous golf
balls.

"A nation of wasters," muttered the German, "sleeping at
their posts. They are fiddling while England falls!"

Mr. Shutliffe, of Stiffkey, had led his cow in from the
marsh, and was about to close the cow-barn door, when three
soldiers appeared suddenly around the wall of the village
church. They ran directly toward him. It was nine o'clock,
but the twilight still held. The uniforms the men wore were
unfamiliar, but in his day Mr. Shutliffe had seen many
uniforms, and to him all uniforms looked alike. The tallest