“We’re going down to Maldon, in Essex,” Ray Raymond explained as we drove along in a taxi-cab to Liverpool Street Station late one grey snowy afternoon soon after our return from Norfolk.

He had been away from London for three weeks, and I had no idea of his whereabouts, except that one night he rang me up on the telephone from the Cups Hotel, at Colchester.

An hour ago he had returned to New Stone Buildings in the guise of a respectable mechanic in his Sunday clothes, and, full of bustle and excitement, urged me to run across to Guilford Street and assume a similar disguise.  Then, each with his modest bag, we had hailed a motor-cab and given the man instructions to drive to the Great Eastern terminus.

“You’ve read the affair in this evening’s paper, I suppose?” my companion asked; “the mystery at Button’s Hill?”

“Yes,” I replied.  “Are we about to investigate it?”

“That’s my intention, my dear Jacox,” was his quick reply, as he handed me his cigarette-case.  Then, ten minutes later, when we were seated together alone in a third-class carriage slowly leaving London, he turned to me, and with a deep earnest look upon his face, said: 

“There’s much more behind what appears in the papers regarding this curious affair ­depend upon it, old chap.  I’ve wired to Vera to be prepared to come to Maldon on receipt of a telegram.  The facts, as far as are at present known, are these,” he went on as he slowly lit another cigarette:  “At an early hour this morning a farm labourer, on his way to work between Latchingdon and Southminster, discovered, lying in a ditch, the body of James Pavely, aged forty-three, a well-known fisherman and pilot.  His head had been crushed by savage blows, his clothes were soaked with blood, and he was nearly buried beneath the snow.  The labourer alarmed the police, and the body was conveyed to Southminster.  Pavely, who was very popular at the waterside at Maldon, was unmarried, and until recently had been rather well-to-do, but for the past few months bad luck is said to have persistently pursued him, and he had been left without a boat, even without a share in a boat, and more recently he had been out of a job altogether.  Now,” he added, with a keen look, “I want to fix that point in your mind.  For months, ever since the summer, he has been known to be on the verge of starvation, yet the police have found in his trousers’ pocket a handkerchief in which, carefully tied up, were forty-nine sovereigns!”

“His savings?” I suggested.

“No,” declared my companion conclusively.

“But if he was murdered, why wasn’t the money taken?” I queried.

Ray smiled, his face assuming that sphinx-like expression by which I knew that he had formed some theory ­a theory he was about to put to the test.

“The reason we have to discover, Jacox,” he said vaguely.  “The dead man is a pilot,” he added; “and in Maldon are many German spies.”

“But I don’t see that the fact of Pavely pursuing the honourable calling of pilot would arouse the enmity of any secret agent,” I remarked.

“We shall see,” was my friend’s response; and he became immersed in his paper.

On reaching the prosperous little town of Maldon we left our bags in the cloak-room.  The snow was lying thickly, but it was no longer falling.  A sharp frost had set in, rendering the roads very slippery.  In the darkness infrequent lights glimmered here and there in the quaint old streets and among the barges and coasting vessels which lay along the Hithe.  The tide was nearly full, and the river covered with half-congealed snow and ice.  Few passengers were abroad that wintry evening, but as we passed a small low-built public-house called the “Goat and Binnacle,” at the waterside, we could hear that there were many customers within, all of whom seemed to be talking at once.

The red-curtained windows reflected a ruddy chequer upon the trampled snow, and men were coming up by twos and threes from the river craft, one and all wending their way to that low-browed house which seemed to be doing such a roaring trade.

“Let’s take a look inside,” Ray suggested in a whisper.  “We might hear something.”

So together we turned back, and entered the low-built, old-fashioned place.

Within, we found them all discussing the mysterious death of Jim Pavely.

Mostly English were the bronzed, weather-beaten men of the sea and the longshoremen who were smoking and drinking, and talking so earnestly, but a few foreigners were among them.  There were two or three Frenchmen, dapper fellows in well-made pea-jackets and berets, who had rowed ashore from the big white yawl flying the tricolour, which had been lying off Heybridge waiting, so we heard, for a change from the present icy weather before going to sea again; and there were also a fair number of Swedes and Norwegians from the two timber-ships whose spars, we had noticed, towered above the rows of smaller and stumpier masts belonging to the local and coasting craft which lay alongside the Hithe.  Then there was the first mate of one of the timber-ships, supposed by most of those present to be a German.  At any rate, he seemed to be trying hard to carry on a conversation with the fair-haired landlord, an undoubted immigrant from the Fatherland.

From one of the seafaring customers with whom I began to chat, I learned that the keeper of the place was named Leopold Bramberger, and that he had been established in that little river-side hostelry rather more than a year, and was now a well-known and more or less respected inhabitant of the borough of Maldon.  He had made a little money ­so it was generally understood ­in the course of some years’ service at the Carlton Hotel in London as waiter.  And a good waiter he certainly was, as many people living in that part of the country could testify; since he found time to go out as “an extra hand” to many a dinner-party; his services being much appreciated and bringing him in quite a comfortable little addition to what he made by the sale of drink down by the Blackwater.  But he did not seem very anxious to talk with his compatriot; indeed, so frequent were the demands made for “another pot of four ’arf,” “two of gin ’ot,” “another glass of Scotch,” and other delectable beverages, that he and his better half had all they could do to grapple with the wants of their customers.

From the conversation about us we gathered that the dead man, though previously somewhat abstemious, had lately become rather a constant frequenter of the “Goat and Binnacle,” and though no one had seen him actually drunk, there were not a few who could testify to having seen him in a state very nearly approaching, in their opinion, to “half-seas-over.”

“Well, I’ give suthing to lay my ’ands on the blackguard as ’as done for pore Jim,” remarked a burly longshoreman to his neighbour. “’E’d never done no one a bad turn, as I knows on, and a better feller there wasn’t between ‘ere an’ ’Arwich.”

“No there wasn’t,” came quite a chorus.  Jim Pavely, whatever his misfortunes, was evidently a favourite.

“And no one wouldn’t have any idea of robbin’ pore Jim,” interposed another customer; “every one knows that there’s bin nothin’ on ’im wuth stealin’ this many a day ­pore chap.”

“Except that forty-nine pound,” remarked the German landlord, in very good English.

“As for that,” exclaimed a little man sitting in the chimney-corner, “I see Belton, the constable, as I were a-coming down here a quarter of an hour ago, an’ he says as how there wasn’t no signs of any attempt at robbery.  Jim had his old five-bob watch in ’is pocket, not worth pawnin’; the sovereigns and some silver were in his trousers.”

“Ah!  That’s the mystery!” exclaimed more than one in surprise.  “Why no one wouldn’t have thought as Jim ‘ad seen the colour o’ gold this three months past.”

“Come on in and shut the door,” cried some one, as a new-comer entered the tap-room, followed by an icy blast and a shower of snow, which was again falling.

“Why, it’s Sergeant Newte!” exclaimed the publican, as a burly man in a dark overcoat entered, carefully closed the door, and moved ponderously towards the bar.  A sudden hush fell upon the assembly, all eyes and ears being turned towards the representative of the law.  All felt that the plain-clothes man bore news of the tragedy, and waited anxiously for the oracle to speak.

“Well, sir,” asked Bramberger, “and what can I have the pleasure of serving you with?  It isn’t often we have the honour of your company down here.”

“I won’t have anything to-night, thanks,” answered the man.  “It isn’t a drink I’m after, but just a little information that I fancy you, or some of these gentlemen here, may be able to give me.  Every one knows that James Pavely was a pretty frequent customer of yours, and what I want to find out is, when he was last in here?”

“Let me see.  Last night about seven, wasn’t it, Molly?” returned the landlord, turning to his wife.  “No, by the by, he came in and had something about a quarter to nine.  That’s the last we saw of him, poor fellow.”

The sergeant in plain clothes produced his notebook.  “Who else was in the bar with him?”

“Nobody in particular.  Some of the hands from the barges, I fancy.  He just had his drink and passed the time of day, as you may say, and was off in five or ten minutes.”

“Eh, but you’re making a mistake there, Mr. Bramberger,” spoke up a voice near by; and the officer turned sharply in the direction of the speaker.

Urged on by those standing round him, Robert Rait, a big longshoreman, came slowly to the front.  All eyes were upon him, which caused him to assume a somewhat sheepish aspect.

“Well, Sergeant, true as I’m standing ’ere, I see pore Jim come out of this ’ere bar just after twelve last night along with that young gent as is learnin’ farming over Latchingdon way.”

At this every one grew interested.

“Are you sure of what you say?” asked the officer sharply.

“Sartin sure.  I were sittin’ on my barge a-smokin’ my pipe, an’ I ’eard the clock over at the church, behind ’ere, strike twelve.  I don’t know why, but I remember I counted the strokes.  Five minutes later out come Pavely with the young gent, who I’ve often seen in this bar afore, an’ they walked off round by the Marine Lake.  They never took no notice o’ me.  They was too busy a’ talkin’.”

As the policeman slowly rendered this into writing, most eyes sought Bramberger, who, feeling that he was the object of an attention perhaps not too favourable, remarked: 

“Ah, yes.  I believe I’m wrong, after all.  It was twelve o’clock I meant ­not nine.”

“And what about this young gent?” queried the constable quickly.  “Who is he, anyway?  Was he here with Pavely?”

“He might have gone out with him, I didn’t take particular notice of him,” the German replied.

“But who is he?”

“Oh, you know him well enough.  He’s often in Maldon.  It’s young Mr. Freeman, who’s learning estate work with Mr. Harris, near Southminster.  He does drop in here now and again.”

“Yes, I know him.  A fellow-countryman of yours, ain’t he?”

“No; he’s English.  I’d know a German well enough.”

“Well, I’ve heard him speak.  Mr. Jones, the schoolmaster, told me once he thought he spoke with a German accent,” replied the officer.

“So he do, Sergeant,” spoke up a sailorman, “now you mention it.  I’m often in Hamburg, an’ I know the German accent.”

“You don’t know anything about that forty-nine pounds, I suppose?” asked the blundering local sergeant of police, for, as is usually the case, the aid of New Scotland Yard had not been invoked.  The police in our small country towns are always very loath to request assistance from London, as such action is admission of their own incompetence.  Many a murder mystery could be solved and the criminal brought to justice by prompt investigation by competent detectives.  But after blunt inquiries such as those now in progress, success is usually rendered impossible.

Raymond exchanged glances with me and smiled.  How different, I reflected, were his careful, painstaking, and often mysterious methods of investigation.

“Those sovereigns in ’is ’andkerchief are a puzzle,” declared the man Rait, “but somehow I fancy there’s been a bit o’ mystery about pore Jim of late.  Teddy Owen told me a week ago ’e see ’im up in London, a-talkin’ with a foreigner on the platform at Liverpool Street.”

“Where is Owen?” asked the sergeant eagerly.

“Gone over to Malmoe on a Swedish timber-ship,” was Robert Rait’s reply.  “’E won’t be back for a couple of months, I dare say.”

This statement of the man Owen was to Raymond and myself very significant and suspicious.  Could it be that the pilot Pavely had sold some secret to a foreign agent, and that the money he carried with him on the previous night was the price of his treason?  It was distinctly curious that the assassin had not possessed himself of that handkerchief full of sovereigns.

We lingered in the low-pitched inn for yet another half-hour, my companion accounting for our visit by telling one of the men a fictitious story that we had been sent to install the electric light in some new premises at the back of the old church.  We heard several more inquiries made by the sergeant, and many were the wild theories advanced by those seafaring loungers.  Then, having listened attentively to all that passed, we retraced our steps to the station, obtained our bags, and drove to the King’s Head Hotel, where we duly installed ourselves.

“There’s something very big behind the cruel murder of the pilot ­that’s my belief!” declared Raymond before we parted for the night.  “Nobody here dreams the truth ­a truth that will be found as startling as it is strange.”

I told him of my suspicions that the publican Bramberger was a spy.  But he shook his head, saying: 

“Don’t form any immature conclusions, my dear Jacox.  At present the truth is very cunningly concealed.  It remains for us to lift the veil and expose the truth to the police and the public.  Good-night.”

Three days passed.  Ray Raymond remained practically inactive, save that we both attended the inquest at Southminster as members of the public and listened to the evidence.  The revelation that a man apparently in a state of great destitution carried forty-nine sovereigns upon him struck the coroner as unusual, and at his direction the jury adjourned the inquiry for a week, to allow the police to make further investigation.

As soon as this was decided my companion at once became all activity.  He found the man Rait, a big, clumsy seafarer, and questioned him.  But from him he obtained nothing further.  With the publican Bramberger he contrived to strike up a friendship, loudly declaring his theory that the motive of the murder of poor Pavely was jealousy, it being now known that he had been courting the pretty daughter of an old boatman over at Burnham.

My position was, as usual, one of silent obedience.  Hither and thither I went at his bidding, leaving to his, the master mind, the gradual solution of the mystery.  He was one of those secretive men who delighted in retaining something up his sleeve.  The expression upon his face was never indicative of what was passing within his mind.

The adjourned inquest was held at last, and again we were both present at the back of the room.  The police practically admitted their inability to solve the mystery, and after a long deliberation the twelve tradesmen returned a verdict of “wilful murder,” leaving the constabulary to further prosecute their inquiries.

Nearly a fortnight had passed since the sturdy North Sea pilot had been so cruelly done to death, and many were the new theories advanced nightly in the smoke-room of the “Goat and Binnacle.”

I still remained at the “King’s Head,” but Raymond was often absent for whole days, and by his manner I knew the spy-seeker to be busy investigating some theory he had formed.

He had been absent a couple of days, staying over at the “White Hart” at Burnham-on-Crouch, that place so frequented by boating men in summer, when one afternoon I ran over to Chelmsford to call upon a man I knew.  It was about ten o’clock at night when I left his house to walk to the station to catch the last train, when, to my surprise, I saw close to the Town Hall a smart female figure in a black tailor-made gown and big black hat, walking before me, accompanied by a tall, thin, rather well-dressed young man in breeches and gaiters, who seemed to be something of a dandy.

The girl’s back struck me as familiar, and I crossed the road and went forward so as to get a glance at her face beneath the street-lamp.

Yes, I was not mistaken.  It was Vera Vallance!  Her companion, however, was a complete stranger to me ­a well-set-up, rather good-looking young fellow, with a small black moustache, whose age I guessed to be about twenty-eight or so, and whose dark eyes were peculiarly bright and vivacious.  He walked with swaggering gait, and seemed to be of a decidedly horsey type.

From their attitude it appeared that they were intimate friends, and as they walked towards the station, I watched his hand steal into her astrachan muff.

The incident was certainly puzzling.  Was this man Vera’s secret lover?  It certainly seemed so.

Therefore, unseen by her, I kept close vigilance upon the pair, watching them gain the platform where stood the train by which I was to travel back to Maldon.  He entered a first-class carriage, while she remained upon the platform.  Therefore it was evident that she was not accompanying him.

The train moved off, and, with a laugh, she actually kissed her hand to the stranger.  Then I sat back in my corner greatly puzzled and disturbed.  Surely Ray Raymond could not know of these clandestine meetings?

I was well aware how devoted my friend was to her.  Surely she was not now faithless to her vow!

It was not my place to speak, so I could only patiently watch the progress of events.

The dark-eyed man alighted with me at Witham, but did not enter the Maldon train.  Therefore I lost sight of him.

Three days later I caught sight of him in the main street at Maldon, still in gaiters and riding-breeches, and wearing a black and white check coat and crimson knitted vest.  Unnoticed, I watched him come forth from a saddler’s shop, and after making several purchases, he strolled to my hotel, the “King’s Head,” where he was met by an elderly clean-shaven man of agricultural type, with whom he had luncheon in a corner of the coffee-room.

Ray was still absent.  Would that he had been present, and that I dared to point out to him the man who had apparently usurped his place in Vera’s heart!

At three o’clock, after his friend had left, the young man sat for some time writing a letter in the smoking-room, and afterwards called the boots and gave it to him, with orders to deliver it personally.

Then he left for the station apparently on his return to Witham.

After I got back to the “King’s Head” I sought James, the boots, and inquired the addressee of the letter.

“I took it round to Mr. Bramberger at the ‘Goat and Binnacle,’ sir,” was the servant’s reply.

“You know the young gentleman ­eh?”

“Oh yes, sir.  He’s Mr. Freeman, from Woodham Ferris.  He’s what they call a ‘mud-pupil’ of Mr. Harris, Lord Croyland’s agent.  He’s learning estate-work.”

“And he knows Mr. Bramberger?”

“I suppose so.  I’ve often taken notes for him to the ’Goat and Binnacle.’”

I was silent, recollecting the curious allegation made by the man Rait, that he had seen the dead man in Freeman’s company.

Some other questions I put to the boots, but he could tell me but little else, only that young Freeman was undoubtedly a gentleman, that he spent his money freely, and possessed a large circle of friends in the district.

I learned that he lived in a small furnished cottage outside the dull little town of Woodham Ferris, and that he had an elderly man-servant who generally “did” for him.

Had I been mistaken in Vera’s motive?  Had she become acquainted with him as part of a preconceived plan, some ingenious plan formed by that fearless hunter of the Kaiser’s spies, who was my most intimate friend?

Yes, I could only think that I had sorely misjudged her.

Hearing nothing from Raymond on the following day, and noticing that the sensation caused by the death of the pilot had, by this time, quite subsided, I went again over to Chelmsford and lunched at the old-fashioned “Saracen’s Head.”

To my satisfaction, I learned that Vera had been staying there for the past ten days, and was still there.  Whereupon I left the hotel and watched it during the remainder of that afternoon.

At dusk she came forth neat and pretty as usual, her face with its soft fair hair half concealed by her flimsy veil.  At the door of the hotel she hesitated for a second, then she strolled to the other side of the town, where, at an unfrequented corner, she was joined by the dark-eyed man Freeman.

From the warm manner of his greeting it was apparent that he was charmed by her, and together they strolled along the quiet byways, she allowing him to link his arm in hers.

Knowing her ready self-sacrifice wherever the interests of her lover were concerned, I could only surmise that her present object was to watch this man, or to learn from him some important facts concerning the mystery which Ray was so silently investigating.  Therefore, fearing to be observed if I followed the pair along those quiet thoroughfares, I turned on my heel, and half an hour later left Chelmsford for Maldon.

That same night, soon after eleven, Ray Raymond returned to the “King’s Head,” arriving by the last train from London.

“We must keep a wary eye upon that publican Bramberger, Jacox,” he whispered when we were alone together in my bedroom.  “You must deal with him.  Frequent the ‘Goat and Binnacle,’ and see what’s in progress there.”

“Vera is at Chelmsford, I see,” I remarked casually.

“Yes,” he said, “she’s already on friendly terms with Freeman.  You’ve seen her, I suppose?”

I responded in the affirmative.

“Well, to-morrow I shall leave here again, to reappear in Maldon as a river-side labourer,” he said.  “You will retain your rôle of electrician, and patronise the homely comforts of our friend Bramberger’s house.”

He spoke with that clear decision which characterised all his actions, for in the investigation of any suspicion of the presence of spies, he first formed his theory, and then started straight away to prove it to his own satisfaction.

Next day soon after one o’clock I re-entered the low-built little river-side inn and found within a few bargemen and labourers gossiping, as such men will gossip.  The landlord who served me eyed me up and down as though half inclined to recognise me, so I recalled the fact that I had been in his house a week or so ago.

Whereupon he immediately became communicative, and we had a friendly glass together.  I told him that I had concluded my job ­in order to account for my hours of idleness in the days that were to follow ­and I then became a regular customer, seldom leaving before the house closed.

Bramberger was one day visited by the German mate of the timber-ship which had just come in, the man of his own nationality who had been in the bar on the night of our arrival at Maldon, and who seemed to be well known to his usual customers, for apparently he made regular visits from across the North Sea.

I noticed that during the afternoon they were closeted together in the landlord’s private room, and during the evening they drank in company.

The return of this German at once aroused my suspicions, therefore at ten o’clock, instead of returning to the “King’s Head,” I concealed myself at the waterside and there waited.  It was an intensely cold vigil, and as the time crept by, and the church clock struck hour after hour, I began to fear that my suspicions were unfounded.

At last, however, from the timber-craft lying in the Blackwater came a boat noiselessly into the deep shadow, and from it landed two men, each carrying a heavy box upon his shoulder.  They walked straight over to the “Goat and Binnacle,” the side door of which opened noiselessly, and having deposited their loads, they returned to the boat.  This journey to and fro they repeated four times.  Then they rowed away, and though I waited the greater part of the night, they did not return.

I reported this in a note I sent round to Ray at his lodging in the poorer quarter of the town, and in reply I received a message that he would meet me at the river-side at eleven that night.

Part of that evening I spent smoking in the inn, and an hour after closing-time I came upon my friend with whispered greeting at the appointed spot.

“Have you seen Freeman?” was his first question, and when I replied in the negative, he told me that he had just been admitted by Bramberger.

“You’ve got your revolver, I suppose?” he asked.

“I always carry it nowadays,” was my reply.

“Well, old chap, to-night promises to be exciting.”

“Why!” I exclaimed.  “Look!  There are three men lurking under that wall over yonder!”

“I know,” he laughed.  “They’re our friends.  To-night we shall avenge the death of the poor pilot Pavely.  But remain silent, and you’ll see!”

I noted that the three dark figures concealed near us were water-side labourers, fellows whose rough-looking exteriors were the reverse of reassuring.  Yet I recollected that every man who worked on the Blackwater or the Crouch was a patriot, ready to tear the mask from the spies of England’s enemies.

We must have waited in patience fully three hours, when again from the timber-ship lying in the Blackwater came the laden boat, and again were similar boxes landed and carried in the shadow up to the inn, the door of which opened silently to receive them.  Wherever the Customs officers or police were, they noticed nothing amiss.

The two men had made their second journey to the “Goat and Binnacle,” when Ray Raymond suddenly exclaimed: 

“We’re going to rush the place, Jacox.  Have your gun ready”; and then he gave a low whistle.

In a moment fully a dozen men, some of whom I recognised as Customs officers in mufti and police in plain clothes, together with several longshoremen, emerged from the shadow, and in a moment we had surrounded the public-house.

The door had closed upon the two men who carried up the boxes, and a demand that it should be reopened met with no response.  Therefore a long iron bar was procured from somewhere, and two policemen working with it soon prised the door from its hinges.

The lights within had all been suddenly extinguished, but finding myself in the little bar-parlour with two others of the party, I struck a vesta and relit the gas.

Two of the mysterious wooden cases brought from the ship were standing there.

We heard loud shouts in German, and a scuffle upon the stairs in the darkness, followed by a shot.  Then a woman’s scream mingled with the shouts and curses of my companions, and I found myself in the midst of a wild melee, in which furniture and bottles were being smashed about me.  My friends were trying to secure Bramberger and Freeman, while both were fighting desperately for their lives.

Ray made a sudden spring upon the young man who had been so attracted by Vera Vallance, but for his pains received a savage cut in the arm from a knife.

The man stood at bay in the corner of the smoke-room with half a dozen of us before him.  The fellow had set his jaws fiercely, and there was murder in his black eyes.  Bramberger, however, had already been secured, and handcuffs had been slipped upon him by the police.

“Now,” cried Ray Raymond, “tell your story, Richardson.  These two blackguards must hear it before we hand them over.”  And I noticed that near me were two policemen, who had covered Freeman with their revolvers.

From among us a rough man in a shabby pea-jacket, whom I had seen once or twice in that inn, came forward, and without a word of preliminary exclaimed: 

“Jim Pavely, the poor fellow whom these accursed foreigners murdered, was my brother-in-law.  The night before he was killed he slept at my house.  He was drunk, but he told me something that at first I didn’t believe.  He told me that on the previous day, spending so much time about this place, he had stumbled on the fact that a certain German timber-ship was in the habit of bringing up among its cargo a quantity of saccharine which was smuggled ashore at night and stored in the cellars below here.  He had had words with the landlord Bramberger, but the latter had made him promise to keep his secret till next morning, when he would pay him a certain sum to say nothing to the Customs officers.  Next afternoon at four o’clock he went to the ’Goat and Binnacle’ to receive the money, and I entered after him, intending to assist him in getting all he could out of the German.  But that fellow Freeman, yonder ­whom I know to be also a German ­was with his compatriot, and the three had consultation together in the back room.  Half an hour later Jim Pavely came back to my house and showed me fifty pounds, and a written agreement signed by Bramberger to pay one hundred and fifty pounds more in gold in Calais, on condition that he remained abroad and held his tongue.”

Then the informer paused.

“Go on,” I urged.  “What then?”

“Pavely told me something ­something he had discovered.  But I foolishly laughed his statement to scorn.  He added that he was to sail in a French schooner that night, and that Freeman, who was in partnership with Bramberger, was to go over to Latchingdon with him that evening and introduce him to the skipper, who would land him at Calais.  When he had gone, the story he had told me struck me as very astounding; therefore I resolved to follow him.  I saw him come with Freeman out of this place just after midnight, and I followed them.  When they got to Button’s Hill, on that lonely stretch of road, I saw with my own eyes Freeman suddenly attack him with a life-preserver, and having smashed his skull before I could interfere, he stole the German’s undertaking from his pocket.”

At this, the man accused, standing in the corner covered by several revolvers, turned livid.  He tried to protest, but his voice was only faint and hollow before the living witness of his crime.

He had collapsed.

“My first impulse was to denounce the assassin, but what the dead man had told me caused me to hesitate, and I resolved to first get at the truth, which I have done with Mr. Raymond’s aid,” Richardson went on.  “The story of the schooner was true,” he added, “except that it was a steam schooner-rigged yacht which was about to land some stuff for another depot at Burnham.”

“What stuff?” I asked quickly.

“Ammunition ready for the German army when it lands upon this coast.  It was that fact which Pavely had discovered and told me.  After agreeing to keep the secret of the saccharine, it seems that he discovered that the boxes really contained cartridges, a fact which he urged me to communicate to the War Office after he had secured the German’s bribe.”

“Yes,” declared Raymond, “the extensive cellaring under this place is packed to the ceiling with ammunition ready for the Day of Invasion.  See this, which has just been brought!”

After prising open one of the boxes, many rounds of German rifle-cartridges were revealed.  “That man Freeman before you, though brought up in England and passing as an Englishman, is, I have discovered, a German agent, who, in the guise of estate-pupil, has been busy composing a voluminous report upon supplies, accommodation, forage, possible landing-places, and other information useful to the invader.  His district has been the important country between the Blackwater and the Crouch, eastward of Maldon and Purleigh.  Bramberger, who is also in the German Secret Service, has been accumulating this store of ammunition as well as forwarding his coadjutor’s reports and plans to Berlin, for, being German, it excited no suspicion that he posted many bulky letters to Germany.  He is often in direct communication with our friend in Pont Street.  My secret investigations revealed all this, Jacox, hence I arranged this raid to-night.”

“You’ll never take me!” cried Freeman in defiance.  But next moment these men, all of them constables in plain clothes, closed with him.

For a moment there was another desperate struggle, when with startling suddenness a shot rang out, and I saw Bramberger drop to the floor like a stone at my feet.

Freeman had wrested a weapon from one of his assailants and killed his fellow-spy; while, next instant, without reflection, he turned the revolver upon himself, and, before they could prevent him, had put a shot through his own brain, inflicting a wound that within half a minute proved mortal.

When we searched the cellars of the “Goat and Binnacle” we found no fewer than eighty-two cases of rifle cartridges; while next morning, in a small cottage within a stone’s-throw of the “White Hart” at Burnham, we discovered sixty-odd cases of ammunition for various arms, together with ten cases of gun cotton and some other high explosives.  Also we found six big cases full of proclamations, printed in English, threatening all who opposed the German advance with death.  The document was a very remarkable one, and deeming it of sufficient interest, I have reproduced it in these pages.

     DECREE CONCERNING THE POWER OF COUNCILS OF WAR.

WE, GOVERNOR-GENERAL OF EAST ANGLIA, by virtue of the powers conferred upon us by His Imperial Majesty the German Emperor, Commander-in-Chief of the German Armies, order, for the maintenance of the internal and external security of the counties of the Government-General: ­

ARTICLE I. ­Any individual guilty of incendiarism or of wilful inundation, of attack, or of resistance with violence, against the Government-General or the agents of the civil or military authorities, of sedition, of pillage, of theft with violence, of assisting prisoners to escape, or of inciting soldiers to treasonable acts, shall be PUNISHED BY DEATH.

     In the case of any extenuating circumstances, the culprit may
     be sent to penal servitude with hard labour for twenty years.

     ARTICLE II. ­Any person provoking or inciting an individual to
     commit the crimes mentioned in Article I. will be sent to penal
     servitude with hard labour for ten years.

     ARTICLE III. ­Any person propagating false reports relative to
     the operations of war or political events will be imprisoned
     for one year, and fined up to L100.

In any case where the affirmation or propagation may cause prejudice against the German army, or against any authorities or functionaries established by it, the culprit will be sent to hard labour for ten years.

     ARTICLE IV. ­Any person usurping a public office, or who
     commits any act or issues any order in the name of a public
     functionary, will be imprisoned for five years, and fined L150.

ARTICLE V. ­Any person who voluntarily destroys or abstracts any documents, registers, archives, or public documents deposited in public offices, or passing through their hands in virtue of their functions as government or civic officials, will be imprisoned for two years, and fined L150.

ARTICLE VI. ­Any person obliterating, damaging, or tearing down official notices, orders, or proclamations of any sort issued by the German authorities will be imprisoned for six months, and fined L80.

ARTICLE VII. ­Any resistance or disobedience of any order given in the interests of public security by military commanders and other authorities, or any provocation or incitement to commit such disobedience, will be punished by one year’s imprisonment, or a fine of not less than L150.

     ARTICLE VIII. ­All offences enumerated in Articles I. ­VII. are
     within the jurisdiction of the Councils of War.

ARTICLE IX. ­It is within the competence of Councils of War to adjudicate upon all other crimes and offences against the internal and external security of the English provinces occupied by the German Army, and also upon all crimes against the military or civil authorities, or their agents, as well as murder, the fabrication of false money, of blackmail, and all other serious offences.

ARTICLE X. ­Independent of the above, the military jurisdiction already proclaimed will remain in force regarding all actions tending to imperil the security of the German troops, to damage their interests, or to render assistance in the Army of the British Government.

     Consequently, they will be PUNISHED BY DEATH, and we expressly
     repeat this, all persons who are not British soldiers and ­

     (a) Who serve the British Army or the Government as spies, or
     receive British spies, or give them assistance or asylum.

     (b) Who serve as guides to British troops, or mislead the
     German troops when charged to act as guides.

     (c) Who shoot, injure, or assault any German soldier or
     officer.

     (d) Who destroy bridges or canals, interrupt railways or
     telegraph lines, render roads impassable, burn munitions of
     war, provisions, or quarters of the troops.

     (e) Who take arms against the German troops.

ARTICLE XI. ­The organisation of Councils of War mentioned in Articles VIII. and IX. of the Law of May 2, 1870, and their procedure are regulated by special laws which are the same as the summary jurisdiction of military tribunals.  In the case of Article X. there remains in force the Law of July 21, 1867, concerning the military jurisdiction applicable to foreigners.

     ARTICLE XII. ­The present order is proclaimed and put into
     execution on the morrow of the day upon which it is affixed in
     the public places of each town and village.

     THE GOVERNOR-GENERAL OF EAST ANGLIA.

     Copy of the German Proclamation found in the Secret Store of
     Arms at Burnham-on-Crouch.

The affair caused the greatest consternation at the War Office, at whose instigation it was instantly hushed up by the police for fear of creating undue panic.

But the truth remains ­a very bitter, serious, and significant truth ­of Germany’s hostile intentions at a not distant date, a date when an Englishman’s home will, alas! no longer be his castle.