"Keep your faces hidden as much as you can!" whispered Whiteclett.
There was enough light in the open door to silhouette a figure as it
entered, and a moment later I saw for an instant quite distinctly the
outline of that oilskinned man once more. And then for perhaps three
long seconds he was lost in the gloom within and we only knew of his
approach by the sound of his footsteps. Abruptly they stopped. He was
little more than a couple of paces from us now and I thought I heard him
move back a step. Probably he had seen the white of some one's face.
There was a little click and Whiteclett's torch flashed full on him. In
that instant I saw his hand rise, and with my head down I charged him.
The report of his pistol rang through the barn and almost simultaneously
down he came, and I had a firm grip of those oilskins at last.
How the man fought! Not till I was sitting on his legs and Jack and the
doctor each had an arm pinned to the floor did he cease to struggle, and
even then he did not cease to swear. Sir Francis standing up over him,
with the torch in his own hand, now turned the light on to his face. When
I saw what it revealed I nearly let go our prisoner's legs through sheer
bewilderment. For there in the torch's bright circle lay the poor idiot
Jock, cursing us in fluent German.
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