faint drizzle was beginning to fall and the streets were covered
with a fine film of mud. People were about, and London was
arousing itself to meet the new day. Harry knew that he was near
his journey's end. Tired as he was, he was determined to make his
report before he thought of sleep. And then, suddenly, around a
bend, came a sight that brought Harry to his feet, scarcely able
to believe his eyes. It was Graves, on a bicycle. At the sight
of Harry on the truck he stopped. Then he turned.

"Here he is!" he cried. "That's the one!"

A squad of men on cycles, headed by a young officer, came after
Graves.

"Stop!" called the officer to the driver.

Harry stared down, wondering.

"You there -- you Boy Scout come down!" said the officer.

Harry obeyed, wondering still more. He saw the gleam of malignant
triumph on the face of Graves. But not even the presence of the
officer restrained him.

"Where are those papers you stole from me, you sneak ?" he cried.

"You keep away from me!" said Graves. "You Yankee!"

"Here, no quarreling!" said the officer. "Take him, men!"