After running half a mile, Ford, bruised and breathless, fell
at full length on the grass beside the car. Near it, tearing
from his person the last vestiges of a German uniform, he
found Birrell. He also was puffing painfully.

"What happened to Herbert?" panted Ford.

"I don't know," gasped Birrell, "When I saw him last he was
diving over the cliff into the sea. How many times did you
die?"

"About twenty!" groaned the American, "And, besides being
dead, I am severely wounded. Every time he fired, I fell on
my face, and each time I hit a rock!"

A scarecrow of a figure appeared suddenly in the rays of the
head-lights. It was Herbert, scratched, bleeding, dripping
with water, and clad simply in a shirt and trousers. He
dragged out his kit bag and fell into his golf clothes.

"Anybody who wants a perfectly good German uniform," he
cried, "can have mine. I left it in the first row of
breakers. It didn't fit me, anyway."

The other two uniforms were hidden in the seat of the car.
The rifles and helmets, to lend color to the invasion, were
dropped in the open road, and five minutes later three
gentlemen in inconspicuous Harris tweeds, and with golf clubs
protruding from every part of their car, turned into the
shore road to Cromer. What they saw brought swift terror to