Danny the detective
Date: 2024-06-27T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: World War; 1914-1918 -- England -- Juvenile fiction; Cub Scouts -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: Danny the detective

Author: Vera C. Barclay

Illustrator: Stanley L. Wood

Release date: June 27, 2024 [eBook #73929]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons / The Knickerbocker Press, 1918

Credits: Susan E., David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DANNY THE DETECTIVE ***

Exactly behind him, peering through the hole in the wall, was an evil face.

DANNY
THE DETECTIVE

BY
V. C. BARCLAY

Illustrated

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1918

Copyright, 1918
BY
V. C. BARCLAY

The Knickerbocker Press, New York

CONTENTS

CHAPTER | PAGE
I. | —In the Straw-Loft | 1
II. | —The Mysterious Stranger | 7
III. | —The Mill Pond | 23
IV. | —One a.m. | 40
V. | —The Dark Passage | 51
VI. | —Spies! | 78
VII. | —A White Face in the Moonlight | 82
VIII. | —Tapping the Cable | 99
IX. | —Free! | 111
X. | —In the Hands of the Scouts | 121
XI. | —Caught at Last | 133
XII. | —“Well Done, Danny!” | 140

ILLUSTRATIONS

FACING PAGE
Exactly behind him, Peering through the Hole in the Wall, was an Evil FaceFrontispiece
Looking about him warily the Stranger Picked up his Bicycle and Flung it into the Dark Waters of the Pool | 14

Bending down, the Man Allowed his Face to be Caught in the Bright Light, and Danny Looked with all his Eyes, so that he might Remember every Feature

50

“Look, Sir,” he said, “You’ve Torn a Big Piece out of your Coat! And one of the Buttons, too!” | 76
“Well, we’ve Caught Fritz and His Pals all right,” said Captain Miles, “Thanks to Danny the Detective” | 90
There, Row upon Row, Shining, Perfect, Ready for Use, Lay a Vast Store of Machine Guns | 100
He Stepped out on to a Ledge, very Narrow, very Perilous | 112
Before long the Boys were Tearing down the Road, Danny Sitting on the Carrier, Clinging to Dick’s Belt | 130

Transcriber’s Note: The illustration listed as facing page 90 does not appear in this edition of the print book.

DANNY THE DETECTIVE

Danny the Detective

CHAPTER I
IN THE STRAW-LOFT

Danny Moor was feeling very happy as he sat on the garden gate swinging his legs.

He had lived all his life in a very dull and smoky part of London. Now, at last, his mother had come to live in the country in a village called Dutton, as lodge-keeper to Sir Edward Finch. And Danny found himself in a dear little house at the bottom of a long drive.

It was an old-fashioned cottage with a thatched roof, old black beams, and red tiled floors. Honeysuckle grew in wild profusion over the rustic porch and around the latticed windows. Beyond its little garden stretched the great park belonging to the Hall, where spotted deer roamed free, and squirrels darted like red flashes through the trees. The rarest wild birds knew that here they were safe to build their nests, unmolested. But that which delighted Danny most was the great, grey ruin of an ancient abbey. It stood in the park, within a stone’s throw of his mother’s cottage. As he lay in bed at night he could see the tall grey tower looming up against the purple sky, and the outline of the crumbling walls and traceried windows clear against the stars. He used to lie in bed and wonder, and make up stories about the mysterious ruin.

Danny was not quite an ordinary boy. His school-fellows used to laugh at him; the big boys sometimes jeered at him; while his own pals admired him and thought him very clever. And everyone called him “Danny the Detective.” This is why he came to be known by that name.

Ever since he was quite a little chap Danny had loved anything mysterious. Detective stories were his delight. He would creep about in the dark old house in London, playing at being a policeman tracking down a burglar. When he grew a little older he would play at “private detective,” scanning the faces of the people in the streets as he went to school, noticing their footprints and anything strange about their appearance or behaviour.

He loved to sit by the fire, on winter evenings, reading of Sherlock Holmes, and dreaming that he was one of the people taking part in those fascinating adventures. And his mind was always full of splendid ideas for disguises and secret messages. He taught himself the Morse code, because he thought some day it might be useful to know it. He might find himself in a dungeon (who could tell?) and want to communicate with someone on the other side of the wall, and then he would tap out the message with a knife. As he ran to school in the morning he would repeat the “iddy umpty” alphabet to himself, and spell out the names of the shops in dots and dashes, so as to get in good practice.

But in the country everything was so different. He did not know how you set about being a detective in lanes and woods and fields. It was Patrol-Leader Dick Church who solved the problem, and also gave him the most ripping idea he had ever had in his life.

Dick was the stable-boy up at the Hall. He was also senior Patrol-Leader of the 1st Dutton Troop of Boy Scouts. He had soon made friends with the lonely little boy from London, and Danny was now as keen an admirer of Dick Church as every other small boy in the village.

It was on the day that they sat in the straw-loft up at the Hall, eating gooseberries, that Danny learnt about Wolf Cubs. He had often longed to be a Scout; it seemed the next best thing to being a real detective. But he was only ten, so there was no hope. Now, as they sat together in the dusty, golden straw, among the cobwebs and the old black beams, Danny learnt that it was possible to be a Junior Scout or Wolf Cub, even though you were “only a kid!”

His heart beat fast.

“Do they learn tracking?” he said.

“Rather,” said Dick, “and signalling and swimming and first aid and all sorts of things—just like us.”

“I’ll join ’em,” said Danny, wriggling about in the straw in his excitement.

Dick laughed and aimed a gooseberry at a big rat who happened to be passing.

“Look here, youngster,” he said, “don’t you get the idea that Scouting is all play, all ragging about, and dressing up, and paper-chasing—’cos it’s not.”

“Isn’t it?” said Danny.

“No,” answered the Patrol-Leader, lying back till his head was half-smothered in his stalky pillow.

“It means doing good turns to other people every chance you get. And it puts the lid on telling lies or sneaking or pinching things or swearing. It means making a solemn promise and doing anything rather than break it. It means jolly well bucking up all round. And it means sticking to it.”

“Oh!” said Danny, and he pondered in silence for quite a long time.

Dick looked at his small friend.

“Cheer up, kid,” he said. “You’ll make a top-hole Cub if you try. The Cub motto is, ‘Do Your Best.’ D’you think you can live up to that?”

“Not half!” said Danny, and from that time he decided to be a Cub—a real Cub, inside as well as out.

CHAPTER II
THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER

The Cubs’ bare knees were splashed with mud as they pounded along the lane, looking out keenly for the little scraps of white paper that formed the “scent” of the hares.

“Phew!” panted one of the hounds, “I’m hot.”

“Stick—to—it!” panted back his pal.

“Are we downhearted?” called Jim Tate, the Sixer, as he had heard Tommies call out at the end of a long route march.

“No—o—o!” came the answer right down the road, for some Cubs were getting left behind.

But Danny, having lived all his life in London, had not done much in the way of long runs. He had got a bad stitch in his side almost at once, but remembering the second Cub Law—“A Cub does not give in to himself”—he had set his teeth, and determined to bear the pain, and not to give in. Then his legs began to ache as if they were ready to break. But he stuck out manfully. Finally his wind gave out.

“I’m done,” he gasped.

“No, you aren’t,” called his Sixer. “Here—hang on!” and he held out a hand to his recruit. “We shall get them, I bet. We’ve kept it up hot so far.”

Just then the white paper showed up a bank, and over the fence, into a field. With a howl the Cubs scrambled up the grassy bank, clinging to weeds and sticks and stones, and were soon in full cry across the grass. On they went, and through a hedge on to the road beyond. But there was no “scent” on the road; no paper showed on the brown mud.

“False trail!” groaned the hounds.

“Bad luck,” called Jim, the Sixer, “we must go back. We may get them yet.” And the hounds dashed off again across the field to get back to the old “scent.” But it was too much for Danny. He sank down, tired out.

“They can run!” he said. And he thought, a little sadly, that they would think him a rotter to have fallen out. “I stuck it as long as I could,” he said. “I did my best—I couldn’t do more.”

He was just going to start back to Headquarters when something happened which was the first step in the curious adventures that befell him from that day onwards.

“Swish-sh-sh!” sounded the tires of a bicycle on the muddy road, as it flew past him like a streak. The rider was bareheaded and seemed in an awful hurry. Then something happened that made Danny jump up and start running down the road for all he was worth, quite forgetful of his weary legs. A dog had jumped out from the hedge, and, in trying to avoid running over it, the cyclist had skidded badly, and now lay quite still on the road.

Danny panted down the muddy lane, hoping the man was not dead, but, before he reached the place where the accident had happened, the stranger had got up and was sitting on the bank, his head in his hands.

“Can I help you, sir?” said Danny eager to do a good turn.

The young man started and looked up at the boy with wild eyes; then peered about him and looked up and down the road, as if he were afraid of being followed. Blood was streaming down his face from a nasty gash in his forehead.

“Can I help you, sir?” repeated Danny. “Let me tie up your head—it’s bleeding badly.”

“Thank you,” said the young man in a shaky voice.

Danny was glad to find he had put a large, clean handkerchief in his pocket before starting. He knew enough about first aid to realise the danger of putting on an open wound anything that is at all dirty. So he opened out the handkerchief and laid the part that had been folded up inside, on the wound. What could he use as a bandage? There was nothing handy.

So, with a sigh of regret, he realised he must sacrifice his beautiful new brown neckerchief. He took it off and folded it neatly into a “narrow bandage.” This he tied firmly around the young man’s head, securing it with a reef knot.

“You’re a bit shaky, sir, aren’t you?” he said. “My home is in the next village. Won’t you come back and rest? Mother will give you some tea, and I’ll run for a doctor. I think your head will want stitching.”

“No, thank you,” said the young man quickly, looking down the road again. “I assure you I am quite all right now. I was just a little stunned. I thank you for your assistance, my little friend.”

There was something curious about the way the man spoke. Danny wondered what it was. “Foreigner,” he said to himself, as he picked up the bicycle and held it for the stranger.

“Could you tell me the way to Thornhurst?” asked the man.

Danny thought a moment, and told him as well as he could.

“Thank you,” said the stranger. He was about to mount his bicycle when a thought seemed to strike him. Turning to the Cub, “Little boy,” he said, “should any person ask you if you have seen me on this road, tell them you have seen no one—no one at all.”

Danny grinned.

“Sorry, sir,” he said. “Can’t tell a lie.”

The man swore under his breath. “Little fool,” he muttered.

Then he held out a bright half-crown. “That will keep you quiet,” he said.

Danny flushed, and then laughed scornfully. “Not much—it won’t,” he cried.

“Well,” said the man angrily, “tell them I’ve gone to Thornhurst, and am taking a train to London. I shall be in Dover to-morrow. You won’t forget—London and Dover.”

Danny nodded, and the man jumped on his bicycle and rode away.

“He’s a queer chap,” said Danny, “and I bet there’s something on somewhere. Wish I knew what it was.” The detective spirit was roused in him. Suddenly he forgot all about Cubs and paper-chases. He was a private detective again, as in the old London days. Kneeling on the ground, he examined the man’s footprints in the mud, and made a sketch of them and of the bicycle tracks in his notebook. Then, feeling very important, he wrote a short report of the adventure in his pocket-book, added the date (July 1, 1914), and started off across the fields to get back to the Pack Headquarters.

About half a mile on, his path lay across the yard of an old deserted mill. As he clambered over the wall, something made him glance at the mill pool a hundred yards away. By it, in the shadow of the mill, stood the mysterious stranger, who had bicycled away half an hour ago towards Thornhurst! His head was still bound up with Danny’s scarf.

Remembering the law of the jungle, Danny “froze.” Squatting perfectly still on the top of the wall he watched, breathlessly. What could the stranger be doing there? Thornhurst was in the opposite direction. He had said he was going there, and on to London.

Looking about him warily the stranger picked up his bicycle and flung it into the dark waters of the pool. Danny heard the splash, and all was still.

Then the man looked about him again, turning his head from side to side, as if to make sure he was not perceived. What was he going to do? Then, alas, he saw Danny! For one moment he stood quite still, gazing up at him, as if in dismay. Then, like a shadow, he vanished behind the crumbling walls of the deserted mill.

For a moment, Danny stood quite still, his eyes and mouth wide open with utter surprise.

Looking about him warily the stranger picked up his bicycle and flung it into the dark waters of the pool.

Then the detective instinct in him realised that there must be something very “fishy” about a person who threw a good bike into a pond! He also realised that if he was to find out anything about this fishy person there was not a moment to be lost, so he scrambled down off the rickety old wall that he had been scaling, when he got his glimpse of the man, and set off across the yard.

The man had caught sight of Danny, he felt sure, just after flinging the bicycle into the pond. This was why he had vanished so quickly. The pond was hidden from Danny’s view when he got down from the wall. Would this give the stranger a chance to escape?

A moment later Danny was hurrying down the steep bank towards the marshy ground where the pond lay.

When he reached the pool there was no sign of the man. He peered about in the old barns, the rickety sheds, and the broken pig-sty—the man was nowhere. He went up into the mill. He climbed up ladders to the topmost floor. He peered between the great millstones. He leant far out of the windows and looked up and down the road and across the fields. There was no sign of the stranger.

“He must be a jolly good scout to have hidden so quickly,” said Danny to himself. “I wasn’t more than two minutes getting to the pond, but he managed to bunk.”

The only thing to do was to track the man down. Yes, there were the footmarks and a bicycle track in the soft mud of the little path that led down from the road to the marshy ground by the pond. Danny examined them carefully; they were quite fresh. He compared them with the drawing he had made in his pocket-book half an hour before, and they tallied exactly. So this was the same man; there could be no mistake.

With his heart thumping hard, Danny followed up the tracks. They led to the pond in a roundabout way, showing that the man had taken cover behind a hedge, the old barn, and a broken wall. By the side of the pond the wheel tracks stopped. Danny could see the firm, deep marks where the man had stood while picking up the machine and throwing it into the water.

Then the footmarks went off at right angles; four long strides—and they stopped behind the broken wall, where the man seemed to have stood still. Danny searched all round, but the footmarks did not go any further. And yet there was no cover here!

He walked in a circle round the spot at about five yards’ distance, but no tracks were to be seen. Danny the Detective was sorely puzzled. But, returning to the place by the wall where the man had stood, he suddenly saw what he had missed before. The footprints did leave the spot, but they went straight back to the pond-side, treading almost where the first footprints showed!

He followed them up. But at the water’s edge he was as puzzled as he had been at the wall. The footprints did not lead away!

Danny was stumped. There was nothing more to be done. It seemed a mystery with no solution—a riddle with no answer. He determined to put the matter into the hands of wiser people than he.

Squatting on the old wall he wrote in his notebook an account of what had passed. Then he set off homewards. At the Pack Headquarters, he found Fred Codding, his Sixer, ramping on the step.

“You little rotter!” he cried, as soon as he saw Danny. “What did you want to fall out for, and then play about and not come back? All the other chaps have gone back to tea. But when we found that you were not at your house I was told to wait here and report to Mr. Fox if you were not back by 6.30.”

“Awfully sorry, Fred,” said Danny, “but I wasn’t playing about. I was having a wonderful adventure. I——”

“Oh, shut up!” said Fred, impatiently. “We know all about your ‘adventures.’”

“But this is truth,” said Danny, in despair. “A most extraordinary thing happened——”

“Dry up!” said Fred.

But Danny was determined to make him listen.

“Look here,” he said, “it’s all very well for you to say, ‘Dry up,’ but what would you say if you saw a chap chuck a good bike into a pond and then make off?”

“I’d say the chap who told me such a yarn was a liar,” said Fred. “I must go and report that you’ve got back,” he added. “You cut along home and stop telling everyone detective stories. Remember you’re a Wolf Cub, and not a kid any more. A Cub is truthful.”

Danny flushed to the roots of his hair. But he had the sense not to answer back, for he knew that if he did he would not be able to resist punching his Sixer’s head—and that would not be loyalty. So he turned and went sadly home.

But the strange thing he had seen was not to be put out of his mind so easily. Something must be done. He decided to go to the Scouts about it that night.

After tea he set out for the Scouts’ Headquarters. There was a meeting on. He banged at the door.

“What d’you want?” said the Second who opened it.

“I want to speak to Patrol-Leader Church,” said Danny. He felt sure his friend would give him a fair hearing.

“He’s away,” said the Scout, “gone to see his uncle at Thornhurst.”

“I’ve got something very important to report,” said Danny.

“Sorry,” said the Scout kindly, “there’s a Court of Honour sitting just now. Come another time.”

But here the Chairman’s voice broke in.

“Bring the kid in,” he called. “Let’s hear the ‘important’ matter!”

Danny entered the brightly lighted room shyly. The eight Leaders and Seconds stared at him. Then one of them, Fred Codding’s big brother, burst into a shout of laughter.

“Hullo!” he cried, “it’s ‘Danny the Detective!’ I hear from my young brother that he’s got a wonderful yarn about a mysterious stranger and a bike and a pond!”

Danny flushed. Then he looked straight at Patrol-Leader Codding.

“Your brother wouldn’t believe me,” he said, “but I’m a Wolf Cub, and I wouldn’t tell a lie for anything. It’s the truth, and that’s what I’ve come about.”

The Patrol-Leaders smiled.

“All right, youngster,” said the Chairman, “sit down. And when we’ve done the job we’re on now, you can make your report.”

Danny sat down, wishing himself a hundred miles away. Presently the Chairman called him up.

“Please give the Court your report about this stranger,” he said solemnly.

Danny forgot his shyness. It seemed to him that he was a chief witness, giving evidence at a court of law. Very clearly he told his story.

The Court deliberated for a few minutes.

“It’s a good yarn, anyway!” said the Chairman, “though I can’t see the chap’s idea in throwing his bike in the pond. Look here, youngster, we’ll take the matter in hand. Kangaroo Patrol shall go with you to-morrow and drag the pond. If they find the bike we will take further steps.”

This was duly recorded in the minutes by the Secretary.

Danny was delighted.

“Thank you very much indeed!” he said, and, saluting, withdrew.

“Smart little chap!” said the Leaders, as they turned once more to the business on hand.

CHAPTER III
THE MILL POND

It was Saturday. At 2.30 the Kangaroos were coming to drag the pond. Danny had got up at 6.30 and was at the scene of yesterday’s adventures by 7.30. The tracks were still clear, but there were no new ones.

All the morning he was on guard, now watching from his place of ambush behind the old wall; now exploring the mill for any possible clues.

The sky was black with threatening clouds. At twelve the storm broke. The rain came down in torrents. Danny took shelter in the mill, keeping watch on the pond from the window. It was nearly two before the downpour ceased. Then a pale sunbeam broke out, and Danny ventured forth into the dripping world. Little streamlets gurgled down the paths; cataracts gushed from pipes and gutters about the mill. Small ponds lay in hollow places.

And, alas, the tracks of the stranger’s steps were hidden by an ocean of muddy water!

Danny’s heart sank. He had counted so on showing the Kangaroos this incontestable evidence. Any Scout would have read the true story of yesterday’s adventures in those marks. And now they were gone!

At 2.30 the Kangaroos arrived, very keen on the job. They dragged the pond from end to end. They raked its bottom with a hay-rake. They probed it with a pitchfork. Then they laughed scornfully.

“Nothing doing,” said the Patrol-Leader. “’Fraid you must have been dreaming yesterday, young Wolf Cub.”

Danny was astounded. He had seen the bicycle thrown in, and now he had seen the pond dragged with great thoroughness and no bicycle revealed.

The youngest Kangaroo had a bright idea.

“I expect the chap came early this morning and dragged the pond himself and got up the bike,” he said.

Danny shook his head.

“I was here before it began to rain,” he said, “and there were no fresh tracks.”

The Kangaroos went away, very bored and very muddy. It was not long before the story had spread through the whole Troop and the whole Pack. Everyone was inclined to agree with Fred Codding, the Sixer, that Danny the Detective was a little liar. But Danny, though hopelessly bewildered, knew that what he had seen the day before had not been a dream.

The next few days were very unhappy. Danny was in hopeless disgrace. The Scouts laughed. The Cubs were angry because he had brought disgrace on the Pack. The Scoutmaster chaffed Mr. Fox, the Cubmaster, and said he had heard there was a budding novelist in the Pack!

The only comforting thing that happened was that in a local paper there appeared a short account of a gentleman’s bicycle having mysteriously disappeared from outside a shop where he had left it.

But instead of this convincing everyone that Danny’s story was true, he was only chaffed about the little paragraph.

All this made him quite determined to clear his honour and the honour of the Pack. He made up his mind never to rest until he had solved the mystery. From then onward he looked at everyone with the eye of a detective. Not one stranger escaped his notice, or one unusual track upon the road. He was untiringly on the alert.

Meanwhile the weather had cleared up. The hot July sun had dried the mud completely. The roads became so hard that there was no chance of tracking. Danny was sorry for this, for he was ever on the lookout for the footmarks of which he had a sketch in his book. Now there seemed no chance by this means of obtaining a clue.

But before a month had gone by he had met with another stranger who seemed to form another link in the mysterious chain.

To their pride and joy the 1st Dutton Wolf Cubs had been invited by the Scouts to take part in a great field day. Danny had been given a quarter of a mile of road to patrol. It happened to be the lonely lane that led past the deserted mill.

He had just concealed himself in the hedge when a market-cart rumbled by. A little ahead of him it stopped. The carter looked keenly up and down the road and all about him. Then, as if sure he was not perceived, he pushed aside his vegetable baskets, lifted up a piece of sacking, and helped a man to emerge from the bottom of the cart. Without a single word the man jumped down on to the road, and the cart lumbered on.

The stranger stood for a moment looking about him suspiciously. He was a very ragged and dirty tramp, with a straggling red beard and a great, bulgy sack on his shoulders. Presently, as if to make sure of his whereabouts, he began to plod along the road.

Danny was after him like a flash, his rubber shoes making no noise on the road. It was real “stalking” this time! Scanning every detail of the man’s appearance, Danny could find nothing to show that he was not a genuine tramp. But that which caught his eye was the sack. It was bulgy and ragged. Out of a hole hung a rabbit skin. But there was evidently something large and square in the sack as well. It looked as if it might be a box. And from inside this seemed to come a scraping, scuffling noise, as if it contained something alive.

At this moment the tramp turned suddenly around and saw him.

Danny was a boy who always had all his wits about him. He was a London boy, remember! He realised at once that he must put the man off his guard and not let him think that he had followed him out of suspicion.

“Please, mister,” he said, “could you tell me the time?”

The man was staring angrily at him out of a pair of little, pale blue eyes. He had evidently been startled at finding a Wolf Cub at his heels when he had thought himself quite alone! The innocent question must have reassured him, for he looked very much relieved.

“It’s three o’clock,” he said gruffly.

Danny was looking him over eagerly. What could he say next, so as not to have to go away? Surely this strange man who crept out from among baskets in a cart, carried something alive in a bag full of rabbit skins, and knew the exact time without a watch, must be a “suspicious character!”

“I say, mister,” he continued, skipping along innocently by the man, “are you collecting rabbit skins and bottles?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to Dutton?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you know the pub. called ‘The Green Man’——”

“Yes, I know it well.”

(Ah, thought Danny, I’ve caught you, old sport! There’s not a pub. called “The Green Man” at Dutton!)

“Well,” he went on aloud, “just a bit further on, past the pub., there’s a little thatched house. That’s where my mother lives. She’ll give you some skins, ’cos we had rabbit-pie last night for supper. You will go to her, won’t you?”

“Yes, I’ll go there right enough,” said the man.

(We’ll see! thought Danny.)

But the man was walking fast. He had very nearly reached the part of the road where Danny’s patrol ended. It seemed to the Cub that the most important thing in all the world just now was to follow up this man. But he knew that he must not fail in his duty. Senior Patrol-Leader Church had posted him on that road and said:

“Don’t leave your post without orders.” So he must stick to it.

“Well, good-bye, mister,” he said. “I’ve got to stay here ’cos I’m a sentry. Don’t forget to call for mother’s rabbit skins.”

“All right,” growled the man, and trudged on while Danny squatted down on the bank and watched him.

“I bet he’s not going to the village!” he said to himself. “He’s a stranger here, but he wants to make out he’s not. And I’m pretty sure he’s not a real tramp, ’cos he has hands like a gentleman. Oh, I do wish I could follow him! I wish it was a muddy day instead of this rotten dry weather—then I’d soon pick up his trail when this game’s over. I wonder if there’s not some way I could track him.”

He racked his brains for a moment and tried to remember what private detectives on the pictures do on such occasions. Suddenly, like a flash, he remembered a fairy story he had read in Hans Andersen. It was about a mother who wanted to know where her daughter went off to in the night, so she sewed a little bag full of flour on to the girl’s dress and cut a hole in the corner of it, so that, as she went along, the flour ran out, and the mother was able to track the girl all through the streets.

“Wish I had a little bag full of flour,” thought Danny. But a Wolf Cub is never at a loss how to do things, once he has got hold of the idea. In a minute he had drawn his notebook out of his pocket and torn a number of pages out. With quick fingers he tore these up into wee scraps and put them into his cap.

The man was already out of sight round the corner. Scrambling up the bank and through the hedge into a field, Danny sprinted along for all he was worth.

Before long he was up with the man, who still plodded along, head bent, his sack on his back. Creeping like a little green snake through the hedge, Danny stole softly up behind him.

He felt just as Cubs do in the Sheer Khan Dance, only this time it was real, not “pretend.” Holding his breath and treading as softly as a cat, he crept so close that he could have touched the tramp. Still the man trudged on. Danny’s heart was in his mouth.

Softly he straightened himself. Then he took a handful of the paper-scraps from his cap and slipped them into the torn pocket of the man’s ragged coat. Then he stood quite still and gradually crept sideways until he was under cover in the ditch. His heart was beating fast. As he watched the retreating figure of the man he saw a little scrap of paper fly out here and there.

“I’ve got you!” said Danny, hugging himself. It was all he could do not to give vent to a howl of joy that would have roused the very jungle!

It was at this moment that an “enemy Scout” trod on a dry stick the other side of the hedge and set Danny on his guard. Lying flat on his tummy in the ditch and peeping through a patch of nettles, he caught sight of a flutter of red and grey that was unmistakably a Kangaroo shoulder-knot!

Creeping along the ditch, regardless of the hundred nettle-stings that raised great white lumps on his knees, Danny indulged in a little strategy. Taking off his cap, he arranged it on a stump so that it just showed above a mass of green and would be well in view from a gap in the hedge.

Then he doubled along the ditch to where a hidden gap gave a beautiful chance for the enemy to cross the road, and, getting over a stile into the wood opposite, to get in touch with their own party. By this tempting gap Danny took cover.

“I hope he sees my cap,” he said to himself, “then he’ll think I’m there, and will bring his party up to this fence.” Suddenly a bright idea struck him. “I’ll make him have a look at it,” he said. Standing cautiously up in the ditch, he picked up a stone and took careful aim. Plump—it fell among the nettles, just by the cap. “That’ll make him think there’s a chap there,” said the detective to himself with satisfaction. And sure enough, before long, the Kangaroos, thinking the sentry was safely ensconced in the ditch further up, were making their way with an unguarded amount of crackling towards the gap. Two minutes later Danny had taken three important prisoners and sent them to the base “out of action.”

“Jolly smart piece of work,” said Patrol-Leader Church, when the field was called in at five o’clock. “I knew I had put a good man on to patrol that road, but I never thought he’d succeed in taking prisoners!”

Danny’s heart glowed at the praise, but his mind was more intent upon the piece of real scouting he had on hand than on the game. When the other boys trooped home to tea, happy and hungry, Danny turned his eager steps in the direction of the lonely piece of road he had been patrolling. He forgot how hungry he was and how nice the cup of tea and the plum cake at home would be. There was work to be done.

In about half an hour Danny was back at the place where he had last seen the tramp. It was a still, summer evening. Not a breath of wind stirred. Danny was glad, for it meant that the scent, in the form of the scraps of paper, would not have blown away. Yes! There was a little piece on the road. Here was another on the bank. Another—another—another! Now there was none for quite a long way. Then—a whole patch on the dusty road! Just here the tramp had been walking at the side of the road, where the dust was soft and white and thick. Joy of joys—his footmarks were distinctly visible!

Out came Danny’s precious notebook, and in a moment he had drawn a quick sketch of the footprint and added its size in inches. Then he went on carefully. Every here and there a little piece of white paper showed distinctly. He had reached the old mill. And sure enough the trail turned down the very path where he had followed the bicycle tracks six weeks ago! In the same way it seemed to indicate that the man had taken cover behind walls and hedges, so as not to be seen from the road or from the mill. Little did he know that he left a tell-tale track of white paper behind him! And as Danny reached the pond he had to put his hands over his mouth to suppress a laugh of delight. There, on the surface of the still, black water, showed a quantity of little scraps of white paper!

Danny walked round the bank, thinking hard. What on earth could the man have got into the pond for?

There were no wet marks on the dust where he got out. It was the most mysterious thing he had ever come across. Here was a pond in which a man and a bicycle had disappeared, and also a tramp with something alive in a sack! Had they drowned themselves? No—for the Kangaroos had dragged the pond and nothing had been fished up.

Suddenly Danny had an idea.

“There must be a kind of cave or cellar they get into from under the water!” he said. “I expect they are burglars or smugglers or forgers or something. And that’s where they hide their treasure. Then, after dark, they come up.” He decided to have another try to make the Scouts take him seriously; but he was still sore at the memory of all the ridicule that had been heaped upon him before.

“I’ll log it down,” he said, taking out his notebook, “and after dark I’ll come back and lie in wait for him as he comes up. Then to-morrow I’ll make my report.”

He squatted down behind the ruined wall and began to write:

“July 26, 1914.

“Saw a tramp get out of a cart, where he was hiding. Followed him. He had something alive in a sack, but he pretended they were rabbit skins and bottles. Said he knew a pub. called ‘Green Man’ in Dutton, which there isn’t. Tracked him down by scraps of paper. He must have got into Mill Pond, but he has not got out yet (6.30).

“(Signed) D. Moor.”

Then he went home to supper.

CHAPTER IV
ONE A.M.

Night had fallen, soft and dark and still, when Danny climbed out of his little latticed window on to the roof of the porch. He could smell the honeysuckle though he could not see it. And somewhere a nightingale was singing. He had gone up to bed at 9 o’clock. His mother had come in and tucked him up, and, shutting the door, had gone downstairs.

Now Danny scrambled down the trellis-work of the porch and was soon trotting softly along the road. As he got beyond the village his courage began to fail just a wee bit. The road was very dark and lonely. Great black fir trees stretched out weird arms towards him. An owl hooted. A rabbit scampered across his path with a whisk of white tail. Once he jumped as a cow poked her head through a gap at him, and heaved a great sigh. Between the weird black branches of the pines he could see the little, white, sparkling stars winking at him. They reminded him of God, and that after all he was not quite alone. God must be pleased with him, because he was “doing his best.” The lonely darkness ceased to be full of horror. He went on with a brave heart.

At last he reached the pond. All was quite still. After listening intently for a few minutes, he flashed his electric torch on the water. The scraps of paper were still floating about. He walked round the bank, casting a ring of golden light on to the dusty ground. But there were no wet footmarks to show that someone had come up out of the water.

“I’ll keep watch,” said Danny, and he curled up in the shadow of the wall.

It was a warm July night, but Danny’s teeth were chattering as he squatted alone beneath the ruined wall. He gazed fascinated at the black waters of the pond. Any moment a face, with a red, straggly beard, might come up, all wet and dripping and look at him. He half-wished he had not come. But he had vowed to do all he could to solve the problem, and surely he was on the scent at last.

The moments crept by and nothing happened. Everything was very still, save for the occasional hoot of an owl. The world seemed fast asleep. Presently Danny began to nod.

It must have been three hours later when he awoke, stiff and uncomfortable. Where was he? Oh yes! He jumped up quickly, rubbing his eyes. He had slept on guard. He blushed in the darkness. Just think—if he had been a soldier and his officer had come round—the shame of it! And suddenly he found he was simply longing for home and mother and bed.

“My duty,” he said between his chattering teeth. Switching on his electric torch, he went softly round the pond. But there were no wet marks on the parched, dusty bank; so no one had come up out of the water.

From away across the valley stole the faint sound of a church clock. The four quarters rang out; Danny listened for the hour. One ... chimed like a sad voice across the dim countryside. “One o’clock,” whispered Danny. He could not resist the longing for home, and softly he made his way back on to the road.

“Rh-rrru-um!” A great, grey car swung round the corner and hummed past Danny.

“A.R. 1692,” he said to himself as he watched the red tail-light grow smaller and smaller in the distance. Almost from force of habit he fixed the number in his mind.

Danny’s feet seemed to have acquired a nasty habit of tumbling over each other. He wondered why. And then he gave a big yawn. How lovely it would be to be in bed—all warm and safe and cosy, and, best of all, to hear mother snoring in the next room! It was so lonely out here. He trudged sleepily on and round the corner towards Dutton. He was walking on the grass at the side of the road. A ditch ran along the hedge.

Suddenly, almost at his feet, he heard a long, muffled whistle. He started violently, and then, remembering the law of the wild, he “froze.” The next moment three whistle notes sounded, not quite so muffled, and coming, certainly, from the ditch. Then a strange, guttural voice, speaking in low tones. It was there, at his feet, in the ditch. What could it mean? Danny, the sleepy little boy, was trembling with fear, but Danny the Detective was on the scent again.

Creeping softly across the grass to the edge of the ditch he dropped on one knee and peered down. It was far too dark to see anything. So he strained his ears to try and catch this mysterious conversation. He soon found that, though he could hear every word distinctly, he could not understand it. It was in a foreign language! There seemed a lot of “ach,” and “gr-r-r” in it; very ugly it sounded. And the word “so” seemed to come in it rather often. “Nine” was mentioned still more often. Danny listened intently for any words he could recognise. Presently he heard “Sir Edward Grey” ... quite distinctly. It did not convey much to him, but at least the words were English, and he stored them up. “Downing Street” ... he caught, and, later on, “Asquith.”...

It was a funny conversation. It kept breaking off suddenly, and there would be a long silence. Then it would go on for a few words and stop. And, somehow, the whole thing reminded him of how it sounded when the postmaster telephoned from the village post-office.

Suddenly there was a movement in the ditch. “They’re coming out,” thought Danny. Like a rabbit he scuttled out of sight into a place where the bank in front of the ditch formed a kind of little, earthy grotto, half overgrown with bushes. He was hidden in the darkness, but he could see well himself.

As he peered out, straining his eyes in the gloom, he saw a black figure rear itself out of the ditch and stand up against the grey star-spangled sky. He could see its outline quite clearly. It was that of a slight, smallish man. In his hand he held something that looked like about three yards of rather thick rope. For a moment he stood still, brushing the mud from his suit. It was at this moment, when silence was so essential, that Danny felt a violent tickle in his nose.

He was going to sneeze!

“A—hi——A—hi—— A—tishu!” He tried to muffle it in his cap, but it was no use. The man started violently, then looked about him quickly. One step brought him close to Danny’s grotto. He had dropped his rope end, and against the grey sky Danny could see the outline of a revolver in his right hand.

Slowly the man bent towards him, peering through the darkness. Seeing nothing, he stretched out his hand to feel. Cold sweat broke out all over Danny. In a second the man would have touched him.

To keep still meant being caught for certain. To dash out and run would probably mean a bullet in his legs. The groping hand was very near his face. Suddenly an idea seized Danny. The man would not risk the danger of breaking the night stillness with a shot if he thought that the sound he had heard had merely been made by a fox; nor would he bother to follow it up or be in any way disturbed or set on his guard by its presence. With a sudden movement he fastened his sharp little teeth in the hand. The man gave a muffled cry of pain, started back, and Danny, with the bark of a young fox, dashed out past his legs in a doubled-up position, and was soon running down the road under cover of the darkness. Leaping across the ditch and through a well-known gap, he threw himself down on the grass, panting. There was no sound of following footsteps. His ruse had succeeded.

Cautiously Danny rose to his feet and began walking down the side of the hedge on the field side. He was making for home. Strangers with revolvers were not to be followed in the dark, even by detectives, when the latter were unarmed. But before long he had stopped short and was peering through the hedge. A little red light had caught his eye. Yes, it was the tail-light of a motor—A.R. 1692! It was the same car that had passed him—he remembered the number! The head-lights had been turned off. The great body of the car loomed like some huge monster in the darkness. Danny could just make out the form of a man sitting quite still in the driver’s seat. He seemed to be waiting for something.

Perhaps the man who had been talking in the ditch was going to rejoin him. Danny, managing to overcome his fear of the revolver, decided to wait and watch. Before long there was a slight sound and the man he had seen before stepped on to the road from the grassy border that had muffled his approaching steps. The men exchanged a few words in the same guttural language Danny had heard coming from the ditch. Then the driver got down from the car and lit up the head-lights. A bright shaft shot along the road.

Bending down, the man allowed his face to be caught in it for a moment, and Danny looked with all his eyes, so that he might remember every feature.

He was a thick-set man with a square, black beard and thick-lensed, round glasses. An exclamation of annoyance from him brought his friend round to help adjust one of the lamps, and Danny had a glimpse of the second man’s face. He knew him in a moment! It was the mysterious stranger of the bicycle incident, on whose track he had been for so long!

The head-lights being successfully fixed up, the driver of the car went round to the back, and Danny watched, fascinated, while he removed the number board and substituted for it one showing “L. 323.” Then together the men raised the hood of the car, though it was a cloudless night. After moving about some time they both got into the car. But the automatic starter would not work, and the driver, grumbling to himself, climbed out again and went round to turn the handle.

This brought his face once more within the light of the great lamps. Danny’s eyes opened wide at what he saw. The motorist was no longer a black-bearded, spectacled, man. He had now a bristling red moustache and his bright little blue eyes showed out from beneath rather bushy eyebrows! A moment later the car had hummed off down the road.

Bending down, the man allowed his face to be caught in the bright light, and Danny looked with all his eyes, so that he might remember every feature.

CHAPTER V
THE DARK PASSAGE

It was nine o’clock when Danny woke up the next day—a golden Sunday morning. At first he thought his night adventures had been a dream, and then he realised that it was all true, and jumped out of bed. He longed to tell someone about them. But, remembering the snubs he had received before, and that he had been accused of having lied, he determined to keep his wonderful discoveries to himself. This adventure should be all his own. Danny the Detective would have a big triumph when the whole mysterious case was brought to light, and the wily strangers stood in the dock! His first impulse was to make straight for the scene of last night’s adventure. Then, remembering that private detectives as well as other people must fulfil their duty to God, he set off for church. And after all, he had much to thank God for! Last night he had had a very narrow escape. And also he had got the desire of his heart—a new and important clue.

Church over, he dashed off to examine the ditch. Yes, there was his grotto—he could see it from afar. On reaching the place, the first thing that caught his eye was a long, snake-like something lying half hidden in the rank grass. He picked it up. It was a piece of rubber tubing about three yards long.

“That must be what the man dropped when I sneezed,” said Danny. “I expect he was so worried with my biting his hand that he forgot to pick it up!”

The detective next turned his attention to the ditch. Yes, there were footmarks in the soft mud. And they were the very same that he had drawn a sketch of in his book that day he saw the stranger with the bicycle! There was a kind of dented, flattened place, as if someone had been lying in the ditch. Sticking out of the bank, half hidden by the rank grass, was an old moss-grown drain pipe. Putting his lips to it, Danny spoke a few words. His voice sounded hollow. He slipped the tubing down into it, and put the end to his ear.

“Some telephone!” he said, and fairly wriggled with delight. “So that’s what the chap was doing last night! The question is, who was he talking to, and what kind of a place does this pipe lead to?”

Search as he might he could find no sign of a cave or any hiding-place in the bank.

“It must be fairly deep,” he said, “or they wouldn’t want three yards of tubing.”

He poked a stone through the pipe, and heard it rattle down on to what sounded like a stone floor some way below. Then he sat up and considered. They weren’t just common tramps or poachers, these people he was after, for they owned a car. They were evidently afraid the police were on the lookout for them, or they would not have changed the number board and worn false beards!

“There is some connection between this drain-pipe telephone affair and the mill pond, and I mean to discover what it is!” said Danny the Detective.

After making his puzzling discovery of “the drain-pipe telephone” as he called it, Danny ran off to make his inspection of the mysterious pond. Running his eyes quickly over the bank he soon saw a clue that to the ordinary person would have meant nothing, but which revealed something very important to the “Detective.” On the dusty bank of the pond there was a wet patch, as if something or someone had come up out of the water and stood and dripped for a moment!

The morning shadows had not yet moved away from the spot and allowed the hot July sun to dry the ground. Examining the wet patch more closely, Danny saw that there was duck-weed on it—the same stuff that dotted the surface of the pond. There was also some black mud—just the kind of slime one would expect to coat the bottom of the pool.

“So,” said Danny, “the chap who went down into the pond with his sack did come up the way he went down. He went down on Saturday afternoon and he came up in the night. What’s more, he came up after I had left the place at 1 A.M. I can’t help thinking he had something to do with the two chaps in the car.”

The Detective scratched his head. It was so jolly puzzling.

“Anyway, I missed him. And he’s not here now, so there’s no good in my staying here,” he said.

An empty feeling under his Sunday waistcoat told him that it must be getting near one o’clock. At dinner his thoughts were far away, and his mother wondered why he was so silent. He determined to spend the afternoon having a long think. He would read up all his notes and try to put the various clues together and solve the mystery. He had a particular, secret place of his own where he always hid when he wanted to be quiet. It was in the ruins of an old abbey that stood on the grounds of Sir Edward Finch’s estate.

The old, grey, half-crumbled buildings stood quite close to the little lodge where he lived. No one was allowed to go into this ruin. One reason was that Sir Edward was a funny old crank and hated strangers poking about on his property. Another was that the beautiful old tower of the church was supposed to be tottering and about to fall. In fact, two years ago a man had been killed by a part of the church falling on him. So a high, barbed-wire fence surrounded the ruin. The great iron gates were always kept locked, and no one ever went in. But one day Danny had discovered that there was a little wee path that led from his mother’s cabbage patch to the hedge that divided the garden from the ruin. The path was only about ten inches wide. It must have been made by rabbits, and if rabbits could get through the hedge and the barbed-wire into the mysterious old abbey, a boy could get in, too. So Danny had followed the path and had soon scrambled through the thick hedge. To his delight he had found himself in a fascinating place.

The turf was soft and mossy and full of harebells. And there was the old grey ruin to explore. Danny crept about in the traceried cloisters, where he loved to imagine the holy monks walking six hundred years ago with their sandalled feet. There was the room where he decided they must have had their meals. But most of all he loved the ruined church. Somehow it seemed very holy. He always used to take his cap off when he went in, though it was open to the blue sky, and carpeted with wild flowers. One day he had found a tomtit’s nest built between the mossy stones where the altar had been.

Now, on this hot sleepy Sunday afternoon he crept out into the back-garden and filled his cap with gooseberries. Then he wriggled through the hedge and had soon curled up in a warm corner of the cloisters with no one to see him but the rabbits.

Danny had not had a very restful night, having been on guard by the pond, and now the warm sun and his good dinner and the drowsy hum of the bees in the wild thyme made him very sleepy and he began to nod.

Before long he was fast asleep, and having a very strange dream. He thought he was back in the old days and that he was a knight in shining armour who had come to the abbey to pray before going to the Crusades. In his dream he saw the monks moving about in their white habits. And then he suddenly saw a horrid-looking fellow creeping about in the shadows all dressed in black and hiding a dagger beneath his wide sleeves.

“A traitor,” said Danny in his dream. And then he suddenly saw it was the man he had seen with the bicycle and again in the motor! Drawing his long sword, he stepped forward, and—but at this exciting moment he woke up with a start.

“Danny, Danny!” someone was shouting. “Where are you, you young rotter? Danny, come on, we’re going bathing!”

He started to his feet and rubbed his eyes.

“Here I am!” he called, emerging from the gooseberry bushes as if he had been there all the time.

His Sixer and two Cubs were waiting for him. Very soon the four boys were running gaily off across the marsh with towels round their necks.

It was only about ten minutes’ run down to the seashore. Before long the Cubs were splashing about in the cool green water. It was ripping! In the old London days Danny had bathed all the year round in the baths, but it was not half as jolly as this. All the same, his swimming-bath experience had been useful, for he had learnt to swim well, and to dive.

“I can swim and float,” said Sixer Fred Codding, “but I can’t dive. Show us how you do it, Daniel.”

Danny ducked down his head, chucked up his heels, and vanished. The cool green water closed over his head. Everything looked so funny down there—all a lovely pale green colour, full of myriads of bubbles. Red and brown seaweed waved lazily on the pebbly bottom. Danny swam gently forward, looking for a stone to bring up to show the other chaps he had really been to the bottom of the deep pool.

Suddenly, down there in the dim, bubbly water, among the shells and shrimps and seaweed, a great idea came to him. He would dive down into the mill pond himself and see what there was at the bottom, and why those strangers were so fond of going down there! He swam quickly to the surface, his heart high with resolve. It would take some pluck to do it. “But a chap’s not worth calling a Cub if he can’t do a thing like that!” he said to himself, as he dried vigorously and got into his clothes again.

Tea was ready when Danny got in. He was as hungry as a wolf—or rather a Wolf Cub! But if he was to go down that day he must go before the sun set; it was past six already. So he contented himself with a cup of tea and a small piece of bread and butter. “I won’t give in to myself,” he said, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, as his mother offered him a big slice of the most lovely plum cake.

Running up to his room, he changed into a pair of old shorts, a cotton shirt, and some old gym. shoes. Then he set out along the well-known road that had proved to be so full of mysterious adventures.

There was no sign of any one having been to the pond since the morning. Still, he could not be sure. He felt a strange feeling inside him, as he stood all alone on the bank and looked down into the water. The evening sun was shining full on it; he was glad; it would be easier to see when he was under. What would there be down there? He clenched his fists and said the Cub Promise between his teeth to buck him up. Then he suddenly remembered his dream and how brave he had felt when he was a Crusader-knight, about to challenge the lurking traitor in the Abbey. Before his courage had time to fail he dived, straight as an arrow, into the pond.

It was very different down there from what it was in the sea. All was a murky, brownish colour. Black, slimy weeds waved about, like wicked little clinging hands. He swam about gently but could see nothing unusual. Soon he had to come up for more air. Taking a very big breath, he dived again. This time he happened to be very near the side. In order to keep down and look well about him he caught hold of a big bunch of weed growing on the wall of the pond. Suddenly, just before him, he saw a black, cavernous hole in the bank. It was about three feet across and seemed like the entrance to a passage, leading away from the bottom of the pool. But it was full of water, of course.

Danny rose to the surface for breath, and ideas crowded into his mind. A passage leading away from the bottom of the pond! Then that was where the men went, and where the bicycle had disappeared to for which they had dragged the pond so carefully. But why did not all the water run away? Then he remembered that water never rises above its own level. On that side of the pond the bank rose steeply towards the high ground where the ruined mill stood. If the passage led up in a steep incline, or in steps, it would very soon be on a level with the surface of the pond. The water, flowing into the passage, would rise as high as this, and no higher. The level of the mill and the road was high enough for the passage to rise beyond the water altogether, and still be underground. Did it do this? The only way to find out was to dive again, swim into the passage, and see! He would have to take a very big breath to bring him up where the passage came up, and to let him get back if it did not seem to be rising. It was something of a risk. But Danny had nerved himself to anything. “If I do find a passage it will be jolly dark,” he said. And then he remembered that he had brought his pocket electric light, and had hidden it, with his handkerchief, knife, and two pennies, on the bank before diving. He would take his light down. Perhaps the water would not hurt the battery. Scrambling out on to the edge he soon found his torch, and stowed it away in the pocket of his shorts. Then, taking a mighty breath, he dived again, and swam straight into the dark passage.

Almost at once his outstretched hands came in contact with something hard and slippery. It was the bottom step of a flight of stone stairs. A moment later Danny was half swimming, half scrambling up them. His store of air was very nearly exhausted when, to his intense relief, his head suddenly came up above the water, and he breathed again. It was pitch dark, and he was standing in water up to his neck. He was safe from drowning, however—that was one thing to be thankful for! He had reached the top step of the flight, and was walking on a slippery surface that seemed to be inclined uphill, as he found that before long his shoulders were out of the water, and then he was only waist-deep. He took out his electric torch and pressed the button. To his joy he found the battery was working, and a ray of golden light shot through the darkness. Turning the light from side to side he saw that he was in a low, vaulted passage, walled and roofed with stone. There was nothing else to see. The passage seemed to go straight ahead. There was nothing for it but to go on, and hope there was no one else down there!

Danny had not walked many yards before his light glinted on something. Peering closer he saw that it was a bicycle leaning up against the wall. “So that’s where the bike went!” said Danny triumphantly, wishing the Kangaroos could see it, as he remembered their cutting remarks the day they dragged the pond in vain.

The bicycle was rusty and useless. The bareheaded stranger who had been in such a hurry that day on the road, and had said that he was going one way when he was really going another, must simply have been flying from his pursuers, and have thrown his stolen bicycle into the pond so as not to leave a clue when he dived down into his wonderful hiding-place!

So the mystery of the bicycle was solved at last! Danny had been determined to solve it. But in working at it he had come on still more mysterious things. It was a big affair this. And now he felt himself well on the way to clearing it up. Had he not got into the most secret hiding-place of the gang? With his heart beating fast with excitement he pressed on along the passage. He had reached dry ground at last. The air was musty and suffocating. Danny the Detective thought that this adventure would solve the whole problem; he little knew all that was to befall him and his country before the mystery would be finally brought to light.

His heart beating fast with excitement, Danny pressed forward through the damp darkness. There was a silent horror about this place. Mildew stood on the walls. Black creatures scurried away beneath his feet, afraid of the light. How often Danny had longed to find a secret passage! But now that he had really found one he shrank from going into the unknown darkness. If only there were another chap to talk to, to feel near! His teeth chattered with the cold, for he was soaking wet. But once more he remembered the Cub Law and did not give in.

“My light won’t last long if I keep it on,” he said. Flashing it round to see his way, he noticed a small lantern hanging on the wall with a box of matches in a little niche. With a sigh of relief he took it down and lighted it. The candle light cast weird, flickering shadows on the wall as Danny hurried on. Every now and then he lifted the lantern high, looking about him. He must have gone nearly a quarter of a mile when, some five feet above his head, a faint streak of pale light shone through a small, round hole in the wall.

“Daylight!” whispered Danny. “I wonder where that hole goes to.” Then he suddenly remembered his adventure of 1 A.M. on Sunday morning. “Why, that must be the drain-pipe telephone!” he said. “This is where the man was who listened at the other end of the pipe while the one in the ditch talked in a funny language!”

Danny must have walked about half a mile when he was brought up short by a flight of stone steps. Mounting these, he found himself face to face with a low door made of some hard, black wood, studded thickly with iron nails and bands, red with rust. There was a massive lock and two heavy bolts. The bolts were not across the door, and Danny stepped forward eagerly, hoping that he would be able to open it. But, try as he would, the door baffled all his efforts. Cold and weary and disappointed he had at last to give up the task. There was nothing for it but to go back.

After a long, dark walk he reached the end of the passage once more and hung the lantern up on its hook. Then, bracing himself for the effort, he plunged again into the black water.

The sun had just set in a glory of red and gold when Danny rose from the mill pool. The air of the summer evening was warm after the icy, tomb-like atmosphere of the passage. It was an infinite relief to see daylight again, and a comfort to hear the birds singing their goodnight songs, and to feel there were live things about. Wringing the water from his clothes, he set out for home at a brisk trot.

“Hullo, Danny,” said his Sixer the next morning, as the boys hurried to school, “where on earth were you last night? You didn’t half miss something. All us chaps were paddling down on the beach, in front of the ‘Blue Boar,’ when an artist-chap came up and started painting.”

“An artist?” said Danny, all interest at once, for, after being a detective, the next thing Danny wanted most in the world to be was an artist.

“Yes,” said Codding, “and he wasn’t half a decent chap either. He let us come as close as we liked and watch him. And he gave us old ends of pencils and crayons and bits of paper. He’s staying at the ‘Blue Boar,’ ’cos he wants to draw heaps of pictures round here. And he said we might come and see him again this evening.”

So, after tea, quite a little crowd of Cubs collected round the artist, who was as friendly as ever. After a time most of them drifted off, and Danny was left alone. The stranger, seeing his interest, gave him a nice, clean piece of paper and some old paints and let him have a try.

A week passed, and every evening he would run down and squat on the ground by the artist, drawing. And while they drew the artist asked him lots of questions about Dutton, and the people, and the country round. Danny, being a Wolf Cub, was delighted to answer them all, promptly and politely, and, if he did not know the necessary information, did his best to find it out for his new friend. When he was tired of drawing he would look at the sketch-books the artist kept in his satchel. The pictures were mostly of harbours and hills and fields. One day he came on one that puzzled him.

“What a funny one this is!” he said.

“Ah!” said the artist. “I’ll tell you why that one looks funny. It is because I was sitting right up on the top of a very high church tower when I drew that. And, looking down, all the country was spread round me like a map, and I looked down on the roofs of the houses and the tops of the trees.”

“Oh,” said Danny, “I see!” He was just looking at a funny little sketch he had found in an inner pocket of the satchel. It was of Dutton, and showed the harbour and the church and the Village, and the roads all round. And it was very much like the one done from the church tower. It puzzled him, because Dutton Church had a spire and no one could sit up on that and paint!

“It’s very funny,” said Danny thoughtfully.

“What’s funny?” asked the artist.

“This sketch. You must have been up somewhere high when you drew it. But we have no church tower here.”

The artist dropped his pencil and turned round quickly on Danny.

“What d’you mean?” he said sharply. “What sketch? Give it to me.” And he snatched it out of the boy’s hand and, folding it, put it in his breast-pocket.

Danny looked keenly at the man. Why was he so flurried and excited? His detective instinct smelt a rat at once.

“Where did you sit, sir, when you did that sketch?” he asked with innocent eyes resting on the artist’s face.

“I, oh—I don’t remember,” said the man.

“But you must have been up high somewhere.”

“No, I wasn’t,” said the artist shortly, and changed the subject. But Danny was not to be put off so easily. He meant to find out why his friend had suddenly turned “snuffy,” and why he had told a lie, for any one could see the sketch had been drawn from above. Sitting silently on the ground, Danny thought deeply. Could it have been drawn from the roof of the Hall? No!—for the Hall and its lake and gardens came into the picture. There was only one other high building in Dutton—the ruined tower of the Abbey. The man must have done his sketch from there! But how had he got up? And why was he so mysterious about it?

“Sir,” said Danny, “how did you manage to get up the tower to do that sketch? The door is always locked and the tower is dangerous.”

The man started at the question, and looked closely at Danny, a frown on his face.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “Run along, now, and don’t go on bothering me—I’m busy.”

Of course Danny examined the door of the tower, but, as usual, it was locked, and there were no signs that any one had broken into the Abbey ruins. But before long he had made a curious discovery about his artist friend. Another friend of Danny’s—a fisherman—had promised to take him out on a fishing expedition, if he could manage to wake up, and get to his cottage by 5 A.M. It was terribly early to have to get up, but, with the help of an alarum clock, Danny managed to wake. The whole Village seemed fast asleep as he crept out into the chill, dewy morning. Not a soul was about. He was trotting along the road at “scouts’ pace,” whistling, when, to his surprise, he suddenly saw the artist walking quickly towards him!

“Hullo, sir!” he cried, with friendly pleasure.

But the artist had started on seeing the Cub, and was not looking over-pleased at this early-morning encounter.

Scanning the man with curious eyes, Danny noticed that his rough tweed suit looked wet. To make sure, he took hold of the artist’s arm, as if by a friendly impulse. Sure, enough, his coat was wringing wet, and, peering more closely, Danny saw little scraps of duck-weed sticking to it. His thoughts flew at once to the mill pond.

But before Danny had had time to think much of this discovery, his quick eyes had noted something else.

“Look, sir,” he said, “you’ve torn a big piece out of your coat! And one of the buttons, too!” The artist glanced down.

“So I have,” he said, a little uneasily. Then he hurried on, and Danny was left standing in the road. He gave up his idea of going fishing and decided to go on the trail again. Here was a new, important clue—the friendly artist, so full of questions and kindness, was one of the stealthy gang!

He determined to go to the pool and find out where and how the man had torn such a great piece out of his coat.

As he passed the drain pipe in the ditch, he paused and looked at it. He was standing on the bank, his hand resting on a telegraph-pole, when something made him glance up. Just above his head, a torn scrap of cloth, with a button sewn to it, was hanging on a bent nail in the post.

Reaching up, Danny unhooked it. Yes, it was the artist’s button! So he had been climbing a telegraph-pole! What on earth for? Danny was more puzzled than ever. But it was certainly a “clue,” and he logged it in his notebook, with the other particulars concerning the artist.

The pool revealed no more secrets, except that someone had certainly climbed out of it lately, and left wet marks on the bank.

“Look, sir,” he said, “you’ve torn a big piece out of your coat! And one of the buttons, too!”

“My word, but I won’t half keep a sharp lookout on that chap,” said Danny to himself, as he walked home. But he had two pieces of news to learn when he reached Dutton. One was that the artist and his portmanteau had departed in a cart for the station; and the other that the newspapers had very serious news in them. The quarrel between Germany and the Balkan States that had been attracting attention was spreading to something wider. “It will end in a great war,” people said. In a few days came the news that Germany had broken all treaties, and was trampling on little Belgium. England, standing for fair play, must come in. On August 4th, England had declared war on Germany.

“If only we could do something,” everybody felt. The Dutton Scouts and Wolf Cubs fairly ramped with impatience to be called out on war service. Their chance came sooner than they expected. And sooner than he expected came the solution to the great mystery that had puzzled Danny the Detective for so long.

CHAPTER VI
SPIES!

Four days after war was declared, on August 8th, a motor-bike dashed into the village, and from it jumped the District Commissioner. Before long, he, the Scoutmaster, and three of the Patrol-Leaders were shut into the Scout Headquarters; the Cubs hung about outside, longing to know what was on.

The Commissioner’s news was that the War Office urgently called on Scouts to guard the trunk cable-line from being tapped or cut in a certain area, day and night, at once, until further orders. German spies were suspected of tampering with most important telegraph wires. Government secrets were getting out, wrong messages were coming through. Also, messages were somehow getting through to Germany.

The Dutton Scouts were to patrol six miles of the road. The three Patrol-Leaders dashed off on their bikes. In an hour, the troop, in full kit, was patrolling the road and ready to challenge any doubtful person.

Spies! The very word thrilled Danny. And suddenly his heart stood still, and then went on at a great rate. Spies? That was it. His mysterious strangers were German spies, and they had some secret way of communicating with Germany!

The hot afternoon sun beat down on the dusty road that wound like a long white ribbon between the fields and woods. Two and two, the Scouts marched up and down, each couple along their allotted distance. With keen eyes they scanned the face of every passer-by. Now and then they challenged a person of doubtful appearance.

Once the excitement was great, when a disreputable-looking man utterly refused to answer, and tried to pass on, as if he had not heard. The two Ravens took him in charge, and marched him off to the police station. But, after all, he turned out to be a deaf and dumb tramp, well known in the neighbouring workhouse.

“You were quite right to take him up,” said the Commissioner, when he heard of this. “At such times we must take no risks.”

It was hot work patrolling the roads. The Ravens and Lions took on the day duty, and the Otters and Kangaroos, in charge of Senior Patrol-Leader Church, were told off for the still more important night work. The Cubs looked on with longing eyes. Could they do nothing?

Before long their turn came. They were entrusted with the distributing of rations to the Scouts on duty. Two Sixes undertook the food, and the two others the drink; and the thirsty Scouts were indeed glad of it. But the Cubs’ proudest moment came when the order was issued that the Scouts—one Patrol at a time—should knock off duty for half an hour, for tea, and that Cubs should take their place, and patrol the road in company with the Scout left on duty, one out of each couple. It was service for the King! They were guarding England from the Germans, and helping to keep her secrets from the enemy! Each Cub’s heart swelled with pride, as he marched by the side of his Scout.

He could almost imagine that a rifle with a fixed bayonet rested on his shoulder. Behind every tree he almost saw a German. He simply itched to say, “Halt! Who goes there?”

CHAPTER VII
A WHITE FACE IN THE MOONLIGHT

And meanwhile, what of Danny! Was he sharing in the pride and joy of the Pack, in its important work? No; Danny was not feeling very cheerful, for he was conscious that for the first time since he had been a Cub he was failing to do his duty. Why? Because he was giving in to himself, to his own pride and ambition, and thinking of his own glory before the safety of his country.

Here he was, knowing a large number of important particulars about a dangerous gang of spies. He knew their hiding-places; their footprints; the faces and appearance of several of them. He knew mysterious things about them that he did not understand. His country was in great peril; the Scouts were called out to try and catch these very Germans—while he kept his secret to himself. A voice inside him said:

“Danny, it’s your duty to go and report all you know to the police, at once.”

But Danny frowned, and answered: “I won’t. If I do that, the police and the soldiers and the Scouts will take all my clues that I’ve spent months in finding, and they will catch the spies, and have all the fun and get all the honour and glory. They are my spies—I will catch them myself. And all the beastly people who laughed at me and said I was telling lies will see I really am a detective. And p’raps the King will hear about me.”

But still the voice inside him said: “A Cub does not give in to himself. England is in danger—what does it matter if you get the glory or not, as long as her enemies are caught?” But Danny would not listen. He felt sure his great chance had come. To-night he would solve the mystery, and catch the spies red-handed. Once he had found them at it—then he would not mind calling the Scouts or police to his help. But he felt very unhappy inside, as people always do who do wrong with their eyes open, and on purpose.

Danny had meant to stay out all night looking for the spies. But, as luck would have it, his mother caught him as he was creeping out, at nine o’clock, and packed him off to bed, locking his bedroom door. He decided at once to get out of the window. But, oh, bother!—there was his mother talking over the garden gate to Mrs. Jones from next door.

He waited and waited, but they would not go away. Tired out, he decided to lie down on his bed for a little while, and get out as soon as he heard their voices stop and knew the coast was clear. But when you are very sleepy, and lie down on your bed, the chances are that you fall fast asleep. And this is exactly what Danny did.

The church clock was striking twelve when he awoke with a start and sat up. Why was he lying on his bed in uniform? Then he remembered. “Slack little beast,” he called himself. He had slept instead of going out spy-hunting! He jumped off his bed, feeling about for his cap.

Hark! What was that? A deep, distant humming. Was it a motor car on the road? No, it seemed to come from above! It must be an aeroplane. Softly Danny crept to the window. Yes, the whirring, humming sound certainly came down faintly from high, high up in the starry, purple sky. Perhaps it was a German aeroplane!

Danny’s eyes were fixed on that part of the sky whence the sound seemed to come. This happened to be exactly over the tower of the ruined Abbey, whose black outline stood out distinctly against the stars. Suddenly, like a faint flicker of summer lightning, a white glow appeared for a moment over the tower, as if a bright light had been flashed further down, inside, only visible from above. And between the cracks of the half-ruined walls Danny saw a gleam shine for a moment, and then go out. The detective had had his suspicions about that tower ever since the day he had decided that the artist-spy must have been up there. And yet he had not been able to discover anything about it. Now he was certain something was wrong.

The German spies were there, up in the tower!

They had flashed a light in signal to the aeroplane. Even as he listened breathless, the aeroplane buzzed, as if putting on a higher speed, and then sped off in a southerly direction.

“I’ve got you,” hissed Danny, between his clenched teeth, as he climbed out of the window, and down the rose-covered porch.

He meant to try and find out something more from the ruined Abbey, and then make his report to the Scouts on the night patrol. He, the detective, would lead them to the tower, where his prisoners would be caught like rats in a trap. He would show them the secret passage in the pond. He would explain the drain-pipe telephone. He would identify the prisoners. There would be the bicycle man, and the other in the motor car, and the tramp, and the artist. He, Danny, would be the hero of this adventure.

With beating heart, he crept down the kitchen garden and between the gooseberry bushes. Through the hedge he crawled, and out on to the mossy turf. It was soaking wet with dew. The pale moonlight shone down on the Abbey, giving it a mysterious air, and casting very black shadows. Suddenly Danny remembered his dream. So it was coming true! There was a “traitor” in the Abbey ruin. And he must prove himself to be the gallant crusader of his dream. He gripped the stick he was holding, and it seemed to him to be a long, bright sword. He glanced down at himself, half expecting to see the red Cross of St. George on his breast, the shining armour. But there was only a green jersey and bare, brown knees.

“Yet, I am a knight of St. George—all Scouts and Wolf Cubs are,” he told himself. “Oh, help me to be brave!” he whispered as he stole forward into the shadows. And truly he had need of help—more need than he knew.

Stepping softly into the dark cloisters, Danny held his breath and listened. There was no sound. Slowly he advanced to the door of the tower. Here he flashed on his electric light. The door was fast shut. Then, on the stone floor of the cloister something caught his eye,—wet footprints, as if someone had walked from the dewy grass, on to the smooth grey flags! Kneeling on the ground Danny examined them. They led to the door. Where did they lead from? Here was a chance of discovering how the spies had entered the ruin.

Looking about him warily, Danny crept forward into the darkness, flashing on his light for a moment now and then to see that he was still on the track. About twelve yards on, the footprints suddenly ceased. Glancing around to discover the cause of this, Danny saw that there was a large, jagged hole in the wall, at about the height of his shoulder. The man must have dropped through this into the cloister. In a moment he had clambered through, and found himself standing in the moonlight in that part of the ruin known as the Abbot’s Garden. Beneath his feet was long, dew-soaked grass. How could he discover from what direction the spy had come? Tracking was impossible. He was stumped.

After all, delay might be causing serious danger. He had better retrace his steps quickly, get out of the Abbey, and go to make his report that the spies were in the tower. Turning round to climb back through the hole in the wall, Danny came face to face with something that nearly made his hair stand on end!

Exactly behind him, peering through the hole in the wall, was an evil face, the two small pale eyes gleaming in the moonlight; the barrel of a revolver, like a round, black, hollow eye fixed on him in a deathlike stare.

“Hands up!” hissed the man. Standing quite still Danny met the small, blue eyes so intent upon him, and slowly his hands went up. It all felt like a dream; it was, again, the face of the “traitor”—the face of the stranger with the bicycle.

It seemed hours before the man spoke again, and all the time the black, vacant eye of the revolver seemed to be staring at a spot in the middle of Danny’s forehead.

“Stand still and speak not one word!” whispered the man, and began to climb through the hole, keeping the revolver pointed at Danny, the while. Then, without a word, he took him firmly by the collar, tapping the back of his head with the pistol.

“It’s loaded,” he whispered. “If you call out or try and run away, I shoot. Now, walk with me, quietly!”

With the cold barrel against the back of his neck, there was nothing for it but to obey. Cold sweat broke out on Danny’s forehead, as together the strange pair walked silently over the grass, in the shadow of the ruined walls.

Their feet made no sound on the long, wet grass as they walked across the Abbot’s Garden, keeping in the black shadow cast by the half-ruined walls of the church. Danny seemed almost stunned. He could not fully realise the horror of his position. He found himself vaguely admiring the delicate shadows cast on the grass as the moonlight poured down through the Gothic traceries of the windows. In his ear he heard the quick breathing of the spy. The cold barrel of the revolver touched his neck. The man’s fingers gripped the collar of his jersey and forced him to walk on. Was it a horrible dream, or was he really alone, defenceless, and in the power of a dangerous enemy?

They had stepped quickly across the brilliant “moonlit space,” and stood now in the shadow of the Abbot’s House—a low, square building standing away from the rest of the ruin. The arch over the doorway had fallen in, blocking it up completely. Ivy grew thick on the walls. On a level with Danny’s head was the sill of a Gothic window. Slipping the revolver into his coat pocket, the German lifted Danny by the back of his belt, and, swinging him up, dropped him through the dark aperture of the window. He fell on his hands and knees on the stone floor, rough with pieces of broken stone. Though bruised and cut, he jumped up quickly. Was there a chance of escape before that cruel hand was on his shoulder again, the revolver threatening certain death?

He glanced up at the window. But even at that moment the grey patch of sky was blocked out by the form of a man climbing through. A moment later the spy dropped on to the ground, and his groping hands touched Danny’s face as he crouched, trembling, in a corner. Grasping his wrist in a grip like steel, the spy dragged him across the dark room, muttering an oath in German as he tripped on a large stone. Stopping suddenly, he seemed to be feeling his way. Then Danny found himself being led down some steps and through a doorway.

His eyes ached with trying to pierce the darkness, he longed to see where he was. But it startled him considerably when a bright ray of light shot through the gloom. The spy had turned on a brilliant electric torch.

By its light Danny saw that they were in a small, vaulted cellar, damp earth beneath their feet. There seemed no way out of this narrow place, except up the stairs they had just descended. But even as Danny noted this the man turned his light on to the stone wall and revealed to view a low, rusty door.

Taking a large key from his pocket, he inserted this in the lock and turned it with a grating sound. Slowly the heavy door swung inwards, its hinges giving forth a weird groan that brought to Danny’s mind all the horrors he had ever read of or imagined concerning dungeons and subterranean prisons. Gripping his arm, the spy dragged him through the low archway, and, turning, shut the door and locked it. Glancing quickly about him, Danny recognised the place at once. It was the passage he had discovered leading from the mill pool. This iron-studded door was the one that had baffled all his efforts when he had tried to open it from the inside.

Once in the underground passage the man seemed to lose all fear, and dropped his cautious manner. Turning on Danny he poured forth a torrent of abuse, half in German, half in English. Then, with a savage kick, he flung him on to the ground. After standing for a moment as if considering what to do next, he drew from his pocket a piece of stout cord. Cutting this into two, he knelt down and tied Danny’s feet securely together. Forcing the boy’s hands behind his back, he knotted the cord about his wrists. Then he stood over Danny, a sardonic grin on his face.

“There,” he said, with a snarling laugh, “there, young Scout, or what you call yourself, no more harm will you be able now to do.” Turning on his heel, he walked a few paces down the passage and then came back, as if a thought had struck him. Taking a large, silk handkerchief from his pocket, he gagged his young prisoner.

“There, little English pig!” he said. “Now you will disturb no one.” And with a cruel laugh, he walked quickly away.

Turning his head, Danny watched the retreating figure from where he lay on the cold stone floor. He gazed at the dancing light of the torch until it grew fainter and fainter, and suddenly disappeared round a corner. Then in the lonely darkness a great sob rose in his throat—a sob of despair.

He was alone, quite alone, underground. His feet were tied so that he could not get up, his hands bound so that he could not move. There seemed no possible way of escape. Would he be left here to die of cold and starvation? Or would the spies come back and do something horrible to him? The silence seemed to throb and sing in his ears. His eyes ached with peering into the darkness. And, lying there, he realised the sad truth that he had brought it all on himself. Why had he been such a little fool and tried to catch these Germans single-handed? For the sake of his own glory he had risked the safety of England. Out of personal pride he had withheld important information. And now here he was lying helpless and useless, while from the tower the spies were signalling to the enemy, and this man was escaping—or setting out, perhaps, to tamper with the cables in some mysterious way, and so send England’s secrets to the Kaiser!

There was no one now to warn the police. He had been given the chance to serve his country, and he had not taken it; he had “given in to himself.” Laying his face on the cold floor, he gave up all hope, and a big, hot tear rolled down his cheek.

But there was still a spark of courage in his heart; a bit of pluck that always remains in a Scout when all the spirit of the ordinary boy has gone. He was a Cub; he would not give in. “O God,” he whispered in the damp darkness, “give me another chance. I will not fail this time. I will do my duty. I will not give in to myself.”

Rolling against the wall, his face struck on the sharp corner of a projecting stone. A brilliant idea came into his head! Wriggling himself round as best he could, he managed to get the cord that bound his wrists against the sharp stone. Then, scraping and sawing, he set to work to cut through the rope. It was a long job and a painful one. Soon he felt the warm blood trickling down his sleeves. The pain made him feel quite sick. At last he felt he must give up. But, remembering he was a Cub, he clenched his teeth and determined that no pain or fear should break his courage. Suddenly the cord gave, and Danny found his hands free!

It was the work of a moment to untie his feet. Feeling that the battle was already half won, he jumped up, his heart full of joy and gratitude. God was giving him another chance. He was to find a way of escape. Taking his little torch from his pocket, he pressed the button, and a ray of light pierced the darkness.

CHAPTER VIII
TAPPING THE CABLE

The first thing that Danny noticed was something that had not been there before when he had explored the passage. It was something that had happened since the German had gone away with the light.

It was a great crack in the stone wall!

A huge stone—the very one he had been pushing and rubbing against to cut his bonds—had shifted its position. Here, surely, was the opening to a secret way out of the passage! Pushing the stone gently Danny found that it swung round on a pivot, just allowing room for a man to pass.

Stepping through, he flashed his light about him. He was in a great, arched vault.

Hanging on a pillar just in front of him was a lantern, containing a candle end, and a box of matches. Thankfully Danny took this down from its hook, for already the light was getting faint—the battery was giving out. Lighting the lantern he held it aloft. As its yellow light flickered in the dark corners, and between the massive pillars, a sight met his eyes that sent a thrill of horror and excitement through his heart.

Standing in the narrow aperture of the secret door, Danny gazed in fascinated horror at the scene.

Before him a great, low hall stretched away into the darkness, so that he could not see the end of it. Massive pillars supported the vaulted roof, which was not more than eight feet high. And amid the dust, and the sense of old days long gone by, of a dead, forgotten past, he had come all unexpectedly on war and its most deadly instruments lurking, hiding, and, somehow, terribly alive and modern.

There, row upon row, shining, perfect, ready for use, lay a vast store of machine guns.

For there, row upon row, shining, perfect, ready for use, lay a vast store of machine guns. In the yellow light of the guttering candle they seemed to fix a hundred black and hollow eyes upon the boy, like so many traitors startled in their hiding-place. Belts of ammunition lay like piles of coiled snakes; cases, boxes, rose in pyramids to the roof. Rifles were stacked against the wall.

A kind of helpless horror filled Danny. It was all so tremendous, so prepared, so very, very unexpected. His knees knocked together, his heart seemed to thump against his ribs. A great lump rose in his throat. And then, as he gazed with a kind of numb horror, the truth crept into his mind that this great army of death-dealing implements was not alive; was, in fact, weak, useless, powerless. That he was alive! That he, in his small self, had more power than all these guns, for he had life, will, a human brain, and courage. These traitorous slaves of Germany must cower before him; he had found them out; and surely he had found them out in time!

The detective instinct in him tempted him to explore the vault. But the voice of duty had become the loudest in Danny’s ears at last. Curiosity and ambition must have no say. He had been trusted with a momentous secret. Over England hung the possibility of a great catastrophe. Here was his duty—to get out of this place without a single moment’s delay, to make his report as clearly as possible to those who could take action. With his life he would guard this secret; and if the carrying of it, the delivering of it, cost him his life, he would not be afraid to offer it. He had not taken his chance when it was easy. Now that it was hard, nothing would hold him back. But caution as well as courage was necessary. Turning round, he entered the passage once more and began to walk quickly and as silently as possible in the wake of the German spy.

A mile of passage lay before him. At the end of it the steps descended, as he knew, into the chill waters of the pool. He would have to descend these steps. Gradually the water would creep up to his knees, his waist, his neck. A big breath, a duck, four, five, six strong strokes, and his head would be above the surface, he would be breathing the pure air of the upper world; he would be free!

And yet, what lay between him and this freedom? He knew not at all. He dared not try to imagine. But bracing up his spirit with a brave determination to forget self and put duty first, he pressed on. If his heart quailed, it was at the thought of entering the black water. What if he met an enemy down there? So intent was his mind upon this possible horror that he was startled and taken aback at the strange sight and sound that reached him simultaneously as he rounded a sharp bend in the passage.

“Buzz, buzz, buzz-buzz, buzz!” broke on his ears. And there, some twenty yards away, stood the German who had captured him an hour ago. He was standing half-turned away, wholly intent upon an apparatus fixed on the wall. From this the buzzing sound proceeded. Several wires rose from it, up the wall, disappearing through the round hole that Danny had discovered before as the drain pipe by which the spies talked together through the speaking-tube.

Now he realised at once that something far worse was on foot than a mere conversation with a fellow-spy in a ditch. The man was using a telegraph apparatus. He was doing that which the police had feared might happen, and which the Scouts had been called out to prevent, namely, tapping the cables—listening here in his safe hiding-place to the secret communications of England’s statesmen; substituting in their place false messages.

A kind of impetuous rage filled Danny. He clenched his fists, and his whole body quivered with a desire to throw himself, tooth and nail upon this spy, eavesdropping, sucking in England’s secrets. But what was he, a little boy, against this man—armed, as he knew, with a revolver? Yes, there lay the sinister little weapon on the shelf that held the candle.

Danny’s first impulse on seeing the enemy had been to drop to the ground, at the same time extinguishing his candle. Now he squatted hidden by the darkness, his eyes fixed in fascinated horror on the scene. Following up the wires with his eyes to where they disappeared through the pipe, he asked himself how they could be connected with the cable. Then, like a flash, he remembered the telegraph-pole that rose from out a mass of nettles quite close to the drain. Before him rose the picture of the artist-spy, on that sunny morning at 5 A.M., coming along the road with a piece torn off his coat, and the finding of the piece hooked on the nail in the post a few minutes later. That was the day before war was declared.

Clue was fitting into clue like the pieces of a jig-saw puzzle. The detective’s heart beat fast with excitement. Then, like a cold hand crushing the hope out of him, came the realisation that the man with the buzzer stood full in his path, preventing him from reaching the end of the passage with the steps and the water that led to freedom. He was balked!

Never before in his life had Danny so longed to be a man, to be big and strong and a match for this spy. Then he would have crept up the passage and, springing on the man, grappled with him, flinging him to the ground there to leave him, bound and helpless while he made his escape, and bore his secret safe with him.

But what chance would a boy have against this enemy? Danny did not lack courage for the attempt, but he well knew that it would be a throwing away of all possible chance of escape. To sacrifice himself thus would do no good whatever. The spy would be free to go on with his terrible enterprise. The secret Danny alone knew, would die with him. It would be much wiser to retire, and seek for some other way of exit from the passage.

Sometimes action, with its element of excitement, with the invigorating spirit of sacrifice that accompanies it, is much easier than a safer, wiser course. It was hard for Danny to turn his back on this dangerous enemy of his country, to leave him unmolested at his eavesdropping, and to creep back along half a mile of passage. Yet, to seek for every possible chance of getting out and making known the facts to the military was his clear duty. He had not yet explored the vault; there might possibly be a way of escape through this.

Pushing the heavy stone of the secret entrance to the vault, Danny crept once more into the mysterious place, holding aloft his lantern. On every hand guns, rifles, cases of ammunition surrounded him. All was so silent and horrible, and yet so sinister and alive. Suddenly he started, a gasp of horror rising in his throat.

There, in the yellow light of his candle, he saw a prostrate figure, lying motionless, upon what looked like a low, stone bench. It was clothed in a long, crimson robe; gold glittered here and there upon it. Drawing nearer, and struggling with his fear, he saw, to his relief, that it was but an image—a carving of some saintly bishop long dead, his white hands folded peacefully upon his breast, his mitre on his head.

This, then, was the crypt of the Abbey Church. Danny drew near, and looked reverently at the carving of the peaceful holy old face. Here, too, lay a prince, in blue and ermine and a crown. There, behind a pillar, was the effigy of a white-robed father—a pile of rifles had been propped against his tomb. Further on was a little chapel, the altar still standing.

Somehow it all comforted Danny, making him feel less alone, giving him a sense of unseen protection. Filled with a new courage and confidence he stepped forward.

How strange in this holy place to find a store of German weapons! Five hundred years it had laid hidden, to be discovered at last by the enemy and used as a storehouse of munitions of war. Quietly Danny began his search for a way out, and before long he was rewarded.

A wooden door, in the corner of the crypt, stood ajar. Passing through this, Danny found himself in a small room.

From it led what once must have been the staircase up into the church. But this was now broken, and completely choked with stones and pieces of fallen masonry. On the opposite side of the room the wall was cracked and broken. In one place a crevice yawned, wide enough to let a man creep through into the darkness beyond. Leaning through this, Danny strained his eyes to try and pierce the gloom. There was nothing to see, but against his hot face he felt a cool wind blowing. It was altogether different from the heavy, suffocating atmosphere of the passage and crypt. Instead of the mouldy smell that had reached his nostrils, Danny was conscious of the pungent, salty odour that is borne on a sea breeze!

It filled his heart with hope. Holding aloft his lantern, he climbed through the opening, and stepped forward over the rough and stony floor.

CHAPTER IX
FREE!

The narrow place Danny had clambered into seemed more like a crevice than a passage. In parts the rough walls were so close together that he could only just pass. Further on, he had to bend his head, so low was the rocky roof. In another place a craggy boulder had to be climbed over, and a deep crack jumped across. And ever the cool breeze fanned his face, making his candle flare and gutter. As he stopped to listen, a faint sound reached his ears, a kind of sigh. As he pressed onwards the sound increased.

“The sea!” he whispered.

And then, through the dense blackness ahead, a grey patch showed, pricked here and there with a faint star. A rush of joy and relief filled Danny’s heart. Fresh air! The upper world again!

Hurrying over the rough floor he reached the opening in the rocky wall, and stepped out on to a ledge, very narrow, very perilous. Away before him stretched a vast expanse of sea, heaving and shimmering in the pale light of dawn. Taking a great breath of the cold, salty air, Danny looked about him.

Below him the cliff dropped smooth and precipitous, to where the green water churned and foamed among sharp points of rock. The grey wall above his head ran skywards, straight and smooth. There was no way up or down. And in front the lonely sea tossed and foamed, with never a boat in sight.

Sea gulls swooped about, with their sad, sharp cries—their gleaming, silver wings seeming to mock the boy, prisoner on a ledge that was to them but a resting-place.

He stepped out on to a ledge, very narrow, very perilous.

Once again Danny came very near to despair. A wild recklessness seized him. He would jump down into that churning foam and water, and hope for the best; hope that he would not strike a rock. It was the only thing to do. He could almost feel himself falling, falling through the cold air, feel the shock of the splash into the foaming sea far below. There was something exhilarating about it. He would probably be killed. Oh, it would be a relief from the horror of the last few hours! And he would be dying for his country!

With the thought of his country, however, he returned to a saner mood. No, that was all rot. To hurl yourself to useless destruction is not to die for your country. He had a great secret to carry and deliver, so as to save England. He knew that there was only about one chance in a thousand that if he jumped down he would ever be able to reach the shore in safety. It was not for him to take risks. His heart sank as he realised the only course left to him—for to shout for help would be useless: this was a lonely place at best, and there was no chance of any one being near at dawn.

“I must go back.”

He spoke the words aloud. And his voice sounded weak and shaky. Oh, the horror of going back into that nightmare of dark passages and vaults! But it was his duty. Here, there was no chance of escape; there, there might possibly be.

“It’s more horrible to go back than to jump down into the sea,” he said, “but I’ll do it for England’s sake, and to keep my promise to do my duty, and not give in to myself.”

Clenching his fists tight, he turned his back on the sea and faced the darkness. Why had he come here if it was all for no purpose? Even as he wondered this, his eye fell on something that gave him the answer. In a cranny in the wall three objects were stowed: a powerful telescope, a signalling flag, and a strong flashlight. So the spies, also, had discovered this ledge! To whom did they mean to signal? Obviously to someone out to sea—to a submarine—a stealthy scout, sent from some enemy squadron lying out in a bank of mist; the picture rose in Danny’s mind.

Picking up the telescope, he scanned the sea, half expecting to see a little black point—a periscope—watching, watching for the expected signal. There was nothing in view; but he had made an important discovery, namely that such a watching scout was expected by the spies; that they had made arrangements to signal across the sea, as well as by the other means Danny had discovered. To have learnt this important piece of information made his difficult task of getting to the cliff worth while; the time so expended had not been time lost. Danny knew now why he had been led thither. With this added information to report, he was more than ever impatient to be out—more full of hope and determination.

Back along the rocky crack he went; back through the crypt; back into the passage. For the second time he hurried silently along it. At the place where it turned a sharp corner he paused to listen, breathlessly. Yes, there it was—“buzz, buzz-buzz, buzzzz——”

Danny put out his lantern. In the darkness he turned the corner and watched the spy at work. The yellow light of the candle was not sufficient to pierce the shadows and reveal him to the enemy. What should he do now? As before, he longed to attack the man. But this course would, he knew, be worse than useless. The spy was very much intent upon his work. Inch by inch Danny crawled nearer. What should he do?

Suddenly an inspiration came. The man was facing the wall, his back to the passage. His ears were filled with the noise of the buzzer, his eyes fixed on a notebook he held in his hand. His whole attention was engrossed. It might be possible, with great care, to slip behind him in the dim light and pass by! It would be a desperate attempt, but it was the only way.

Danny measured the space with his eye. His heart beat wildly. Dare he attempt it? Of course, he would dare anything for England! And this was not a forlorn hope; it was a chance of escape depending upon steady nerve, self-control, and infinite care.

He remembered how he had always been the best Cub at “stalking” when the Cubmaster stood blindfold, and the Cubs had to creep near him. That practice had not been wasted. Inch by inch he crept up. “Buzz, buzz!” went the apparatus. Oh, if only it would go on buzzing—if only the spy would stick to his job for five minutes longer! Nearer and nearer Danny crawled. Once he lay flat and froze, as the spy changed his position and actually glanced up the dark passage! Then he resumed his slow progress.

At last he crouched a yard from the man. The buzzer buzzed hard; the spy bent forward, writing in his book. Like a mouse running silently along the wainscot, Danny slid past him, almost brushing the man’s legs. Without pausing or turning, not daring to breathe, he crawled on.

At last, hidden by the shadows, he paused, and, kneeling up, slowly turned his head. The man was still intent on his work. The task was accomplished! Danny breathed again. There was infinite gratitude in his pounding heart.

Rising softly to a standing position, he tiptoed on down the passage. He had been forced, of course, to leave his lantern behind. He dared not use his electric light in case another spy lurked ahead. In the pitch darkness he pressed on as quickly as he could. Every now and then he paused to listen. There was no sound of following steps. He felt pretty confident that he would not meet a German at the end of the passage, for they would not dare try to get in or out by daylight, and by now the sun must have risen. Before long the Scouts on the day watch would be coming to relieve those who had patrolled the roads the long night through. No, the spies would have little chance above ground—they must stay in their horrible underground haunts, or up in the tower. They were like rats in a trap! Danny nearly laughed aloud at the thought, for once he was out of the passage, these rats would be in his power!

Splash, splash! He had stepped without knowing it into the water. He paused a minute, nerving himself for what was to follow. Then the thought that only this lay between him and freedom gave him new courage. Wading in, he was soon waist-deep. When the water was up to his neck, and he had already descended four steps, he took a big breath and dived. Three, four, five strong strokes and he was out in the dim, green light at the bottom of the pool. A fish swam out of his way. Weeds and lily buds swayed about him. He raised his hands above his head, kicked with his legs, and rose to the surface of the pool. He was free, free, free!

The early-morning sun shone down in golden glory through the trees. A thousand birds were singing. Scrambling out of the water, Danny stood on the bank and looked around him at the beautiful world he had scarcely hoped to see again.

“Thank God!” he said from the bottom of his heart. Then he set briskly out to perform the great duty that lay before him.

CHAPTER X
IN THE HANDS OF THE SCOUTS

For a few minutes Danny could do nothing but stand on the edge of the pool, in the glorious sunlight, beneath the great blue sky, and realise that he was free. It was like waking up from a ghastly nightmare.

After shaking himself like a dog and squeezing some of the water out of his clothes, he turned up the little path leading to the road.

Where should he go? To whom should he report? He had such a wonderful story to tell, such a network of clues to unravel, such important information to report—it was difficult to know where to start. And would they ever take him seriously? he wondered.

Feeling in his pocket, he drew forth a flat cigarette-tin. It contained his precious notebook. For, with the forethought of a true Scout, he had realised that at any time a swim in the pool might be necessary, and that it was important to keep his book dry. It contained his report, carefully written out, with dates and diagrams, up till the night of his capture. The events since then were not entered, of course, but they were imprinted forever on his brain. Can any one ever forget moments when death seems very near, or when an unseen hand seems to protect one marvellously and set one free?

Glancing at his entries, Danny decided that his little book would not be much use in helping to explain the immediate dangers that must be dealt with. It was useless to try and tell the whole story from the beginning. To get the Germans caught was all that mattered. His book would be useful as evidence later, so he replaced it in his pocket and set out along the road in search of the Scouts.

It was not long before he came on two of them marching briskly along their piece of road.

“Hullo!” they said. “What on earth are you doing out at this time of the morning? And you’re soaking wet, and in no end of a mess. Your uniform’s all torn, and—what’s up with your wrists? They’re all bleeding! My word, you will get in a row!”

“Can’t help that,” said Danny. “There’s something jolly important up. Who’s the P. L. in charge? I’ve got to report it at once.”

“Michael Byrne’s just come on with us—but Dick is only just going off with the night chaps. If you buck up you’ll catch him,” said the Scouts.

“Thanks,” said Danny, and set off down the road at the double. Old Mike was a good chap and a friend of Danny’s, but somehow he didn’t seem the best chap to whom to report. The Senior P. L. was the very person Danny wanted.

Rounding the corner, he saw a party of Scouts ahead, walking slowly towards the village. It must be those who had been on duty all night, just going back to bed. Danny slowed down into a walk again to get his breath, but before long he had caught them up. Stepping up to Dick’s side, he saluted smartly.

“Hullo, Danny!” said Dick, surprised. The other fellows all opened their mouths to make the same kind of remarks that the first two Scouts had made, but Danny spoke at once without waiting for them.

“Dick,” he said, “I’ve got something jolly important to report to you at once. Can I speak to you, alone? We mustn’t lose a sec.”

“Right-o!” said Dick Church, and Danny noted with relief that he spoke perfectly seriously.

Some of the Scouts began to laugh and make jokes about “Danny the Detective,” but Dick rounded on them.

“Shut up, you chaps!” he said. “Can’t you see the kid’s as white as a sheet, and all over blood, and his clothes torn and soaked? He wouldn’t get in that state for fun. Go on—don’t wait for me.” He turned to Danny, and suddenly took his arm, for the boy was swaying, his head was turning dizzily.

“Jim,” he called, after the retreating Scouts, “have you got some tea left in your billy?”

Jim came back.

“Here you are, kid—have a drink!” said Dick, giving him the cup. “Sit down! You’ll be all right in a minute!”

The tea bucked Danny up no end. His knees stopped knocking together.

“Thank you,” he said. “Don’t know why I felt so funny; I’m all right now.”

“Then what is it you have to report?” said Dick, sitting down on the bank.

“Well,” said Danny, “first I think you may want those chaps when you hear.” He pointed after the Scouts.

Dick blew his whistle. “I say,” he shouted as they turned round, “sit down and wait for me. I shan’t be long.” The Scouts obeyed.

“Now,” said Dick, “fire away!”

Danny took a big breath. “There is a party of German spies,” he said, “quite near here. One is tapping this very cable. Others are watching and signalling from the Abbey Tower. They have a store of guns and ammunition.”

“Are you kidding?” said Dick, searching Danny’s face with keen eyes.

The boy shook his head. “I’m not,” he said, “on my honour.”

“Have you seen these spies?” said Dick quietly, watching the Cub intently.

“Yes!”

“When?”

“I’ve been their prisoner all night, and have only just escaped.” He held out his hands. “I hurt them,” he said, “getting free.”

Dick nodded. “Where are they hiding?” he asked.

“In an underground passage, and in the tower.”

“Are they there now?”

“Yes.”

“Where is the entrance to the underground passage?”

“There are two. One is in the Abbey ruins, and one at the bottom of the mill pond.”

“Where are they tapping the cable?”

“About three hundred yards down this road. Wires run down the telegraph post. The man has a buzzer below, in the passage.”

Dick took his whistle from his pocket and blew three short blasts and a long one. Two leaders and two seconds jumped up from the seated group ahead, and came up at the double. “Allen,” said Dick, “take your patrol down to the mill, set three boys to watch the pond, and you and the others search the mill and outhouses. Don’t leave the pond unguarded for an instant. It is being used by spies.”

“Great Scott!” said Allen.

“If you pass Michael,” said Dick, “tell him I’ve sent you back on duty, for a special guard.”

“Right,” said Allen, and doubled off.

“Marchant, you and your chaps must come with me,” said Dick. “We are on the scent of something hot this time. Lead ahead, Danny.”

The Kangaroos passed at the double, a grin of content on every face. This really was war. The Otters fell in behind Dick and their leader with mystified expressions. Ten minutes later the party had arrived at Danny’s house.

“You must come through my garden,” he said.

The Scouts followed him. Across the cabbage patch they crept, between the gooseberry bushes, and through the little hole in the hedge. White dew lay thick on the grass, and a whole colony of rabbits darted up, surprised, and scuttled away.

“Here,” said Danny, as the party halted by the ruins of the Abbot’s House, “here is entrance to the secret passage. You have to get through the window.”

“Get through!” commanded Dick.

Following their guide, the patrol got through. It was pitch dark. Dick switched on his electric torch. Down the steps they crept.

“This is the door to the passage,” said Danny, as the Scouts reached the low archway.

“How many spies are in the passage?” asked Dick.

“One,” said Danny.

“Two of you chaps—Bill and Knobby—stay here on guard. Have you got staves?”

“Yes.”

“And axes,” added Knobby, with a ferocious emphasis.

“If any one tries to open that door from the inside, keep it shut—see?”

“Right,” said Bill.

With Danny leading the way, the party, now minus two, crept out again into the sunlight.

“This is the way they get from the passage to the tower,” said Danny, as they walked across the open space of grass and climbed through the hole in the wall into the cloisters. “I saw their wet footprints on the flagstones, leading up to the door of the tower,” he added.

“How many are in the tower?” said Dick.

“I don’t know for certain,” replied Danny. “But I have seen four belonging to the gang myself. One is in the passage. There are probably three or more up there.”

Dick tried the door. It was locked.

“Four of you stand on guard outside this door,” he said. “Two get further out in the ruin; one must keep his eyes on the top of the tower, and the other just patrol around. Danny, come with me.”

Five minutes later Dick was pushing his motor-bike out of its shed. Before long the boys were tearing down the road, Danny sitting on the carrier, clinging to Dick’s belt.

“Stop me at the telegraph post, won’t you?” he called over his shoulder.

Before long the boys were tearing down the road, Danny sitting on the carrier, clinging to Dick’s belt.

“Right,” panted Danny, through the wind. “Whoa!” he shouted presently. “Here we are!”

Dick stopped and jumped off, leaning his bike against the bank.

“There—do you see?” whispered Danny, brushing aside a mass of nettles and revealing the old drain pipe. “There goes the wire. Do you see?—it runs up the post. They’ve cut a groove for it and tarred it over, so it scarcely shows! The German chap is just down there. Put your ear to the hole—you may hear the buzzer.”

Dick lay down in the ditch, his ear glued to the pipe.

“By Jove, so I can!” he whispered excitedly. “It’s quite clear—yes—yes!...” He listened intently for some minutes. Then he got up. “I can’t make any sense of it—it’s in code.” He ground his teeth. “And to think that beast is taking it all down!” he whispered. Then a sudden inspiration seized him.

“We’ll soon put a stop to his eavesdropping!” he exclaimed. “It may give the show away, that he’s found out, but if he tries to escape, our chaps will nab him all right.”

Taking his axe from its case, Dick dealt a blow to the post, severing both wires.

“Now I must connect them again, up there,” he said, and proceeded to swarm quickly up the post. Danny watched admiringly.

Clinging on with his legs, Dick worked with deft fingers. He had not got his Telegraphist Badge for nothing.

“That’s done,” he said, sliding down. “Now for Captain Miles.”

As they flew past the mill, Danny waved his hand to Allen and the Kangaroos on duty there. Then he began to think anxiously of the report he was to make to Captain Miles.

CHAPTER XI
CAUGHT AT LAST

Outside Danny’s garden gate, an important-looking group of people were standing. In fact, they looked so important and so interesting that most of the inhabitants of the village had turned out to stare at them. Two Sixes of Cubs had been posted as a cordon to keep the staring crowd from touching the three grey motor cars or otherwise annoying the group.

This consisted of Captain Miles and a young officer, a sergeant and ten hefty privates, a police inspector and three constables, a private detective, Dick and Danny.

“Here he comes!” said Dick. The Scout who had been sent up to the Hall was returning, accompanied by the pompous butler, bearing the great iron key that unlocked the gate of the Abbey ruins. It would have been rather ignominious for an officer of the British army to have to crawl through cabbages and gooseberry bushes and a small hole in a privet hedge—or so thought the Scouts—though Captain Miles was quite prepared to do so.

“But it would be difficult bringing the prisoners out that way,” said Danny. The constables grinned at the small boy’s assurance. And the private detective (the real one) looked green with envy.

“Lead the way, young Cub,” said Captain Miles, as the gate swung open with a screech of rusty hinges.

For the second time that day, Danny walked across the grassy space of the Abbot’s garden. And his heart was light and his ambitious soul satisfied, for behind him walked an officer, and men with fixed bayonets. Two privates relieved the Scouts who still crouched in the darkness within the ruin of the Abbot’s House. They blinked like owls as they climbed out into the sunlight again.

“We will deal with the tower first,” said Captain Miles.

Danny led the way to the tower door.

To their disappointment, the officer ordered Danny and the Scouts to retire to a safe distance. But from there they watched, their hearts beating with excitement.

Two of the privates, after several efforts, succeeded in bursting open the little door. Then, with his revolver in his hand and followed by the sergeant and three privates, Captain Miles entered. Several breathless minutes passed. And then they reappeared, but not alone. Sheepish, sullen, and securely handcuffed, three Germans stepped out between their burly guards.

“Come on!” called Captain Miles to the Scouts, a grin of satisfaction on his cheery face.

Danny and the Scouts obeyed with alacrity.

“Well, we’ve caught Fritz and his pals, all right,” said Captain Miles, “thanks to ‘Danny the Detective.’”

The three Germans stared at Danny with an expression of such loathing that it made cold shivers run down his back.

Two sentries were posted with fixed bayonets each side of the tower door, for the fourth spy was to be caught before the tower was investigated.

The party moved over to the Abbot’s House. Captain Miles, the sergeant, and four privates climbed through the ruined window, and disappeared into the darkness. The group outside stood listening breathlessly. They heard the iron door creak as it swung back on its rusty hinges. Then silence.

But suddenly a yell rent the air, followed by a great explosion. Then silence again. The young officer, accompanied by the privates and constables, climbed through the window and dashed across the dark house into the passage. Feverishly the Scouts waited without. The minutes seemed to drag by like hours. What had happened? Then a sound fell on their ears. Heavy, shuffling steps were crossing the rough floor of the house.

“Here, give us a hand,” said a voice within. The Scouts were ready.

One by one the members of the first party were passed through the window. They were badly wounded. Several were unconscious. Laying them on the grass, the Scouts turned to Dick for instructions. Each received his orders promptly and clearly. One sped off for a doctor, another to telephone for an ambulance, another to fetch such articles as could be borrowed to render first aid to the wounded men.

Quickly and skilfully tourniquets were applied to arrest the flow of blood that already dyed the grass red. Everyone was pale and horrified.

“What happened?” was the whisper that passed from one to the other.

“The—chap—threw a bomb—and—made off,” said the only man fit to speak.

The young officer had returned.

“Captain Miles has had a narrow shave,” he said, “but he’s all right. He’s gone on with some more men. Now, let’s see to these poor chaps.”

But he found they were all being seen to very well, and he learnt for the first time what the Scout motto means. Through years of peace the Scouts had been preparing themselves. With keenness and energy they had been learning, practising much that seemed to outsiders of but little use. “Be Prepared,” was the motto their Chief had given them. And “Stick to it,” was the one they had added. The war has proved who, after all, was in the right.

The Kangaroos had been told to guard the mill pond. They had not been told why it was necessary to keep a sharp watch upon it, beyond that it was being used by the enemy. But, being Scouts, they had obeyed the order and kept a vigilant lookout, though it seemed quiet and peaceful enough.

The two whose turn it was to watch were lying well ambushed, their eyes upon the water, when to their immense surprise a head suddenly rose above the surface.

Its hair was plastered down with slime and duck-weed. Its eyes looked about in a terrified manner. Seeing no one, the owner of the head swam to the side of the pond, and quickly, cautiously, clambered on to the bank.

Then the two Scouts dashed forward. In a minute they had him down, his arms pinned to his sides.

A long “Coo-ee!” brought up the other Kangaroos at the double, and “Fritz” found himself a helpless prisoner.

Leaving the rest to keep watch on the pond, the Leader of the Kangaroos marched off his prisoner between two hefty guards.

CHAPTER XII
“WELL DONE, DANNY!”

Meanwhile, Captain Miles and his party searched the passage in vain. The spy had vanished. Realising what might have happened, the officer sent back a party to go as quickly as possible to the mill, whilst he continued to search the vault. And so the party bound for the mill met the prisoner and his guards on the road, and returning, reported this to Captain Miles.

Packing the four Germans and their guards into a motor lorry, and putting the young officer in charge, he sent them to the town and turned his attention to the necessary investigations.

Pausing at the door of the tower.

“Look here, young Wolf Cub,” he said, “you’ve done some very smart work in discovering all this, and proved yourself some detective. You may come with me and investigate the tower. That valuable notebook of yours will then contain the end of the story. It will be a treasure worth keeping.”

And so Danny, in the seventh heaven of happiness, accompanied the officer up the winding stairs.

At the top of the tower they discovered a wireless apparatus, a cage of carrier pigeons, a powerful flashlight, and a large store of provisions.

“We knew there was something bad on,” said Captain Miles, “but not like this! You’ve done your country a good turn, indeed, in discovering it! Well done, Danny!”

That night the Troop and the Pack met at Troop Headquarters. Much ginger beer flowed. Then the Scoutmaster blew his whistle and, standing, on a soap box, addressed the assembled company. It was a long speech, but everyone listened, spellbound, for he told them the whole story of Danny’s adventures, since the first day, after the paper-chase.

When he had done, the Troop and Pack broke into cheers.

“Order, order!” shouted the Leaders, as the Cubmaster mounted the soap box.

“Your grasping Scoutmaster has tried to steal Danny and get him for his Troop,” he said. “But Danny has chosen to stay with us. I must announce that he has been elected Pack Leader, by the unanimous vote of the Pack—and we are jolly proud of him.”

“Speech, speech!” called everyone, and someone put Danny on the soap box.

“I wish you’d all chuck it,” he said. “I don’t deserve any praise. It was simply ripping fun—just what I had always longed for. I’ve had great luck, that’s all.”

“Your Pack Leader will need a cap several sizes larger soon,” said the Scoutmaster to the Cubmaster, as he opened the morning paper the next day.

Before long there was a letter of thanks from the Government, a medal, and a cheque for £100.

But there was something Danny valued more than all the rest. It was just a short letter of congratulations. But he took it away and read it all by himself in the garden, and did not show it to anybody else for quite a long time.

It was from the Chief Scout.

The End

The White Blanket

By
Belmore Browne

Author of “The Quest of the Golden Valley,” etc.

12o. Illustrated. $1.25 net.
By mail, $1.35

A sequel to The Quest of the Golden Valley, this time taking the chums through the vicissitudes of an Alaskan winter.

They travel over snow-covered mountain ranges and frost-bound plateaus to the rolling caribou mountains of the unknown interior. In their wanderings they experience many strange adventures, and overcome the numerous hardships that are familiar to the men of the Northern wilderness. They trap the many fur-bearing animals, hunt the big game, camp with the Indians, do dog-driving, snowshoeing, etc. With the coming of spring they descend one of the wilderness rivers on a raft and at the eleventh hour, after being wrecked in a dangerous canyon, they discover a fabulous quartz lode, and succeed in reaching the sea coast.

Sheridan’s Twins

By
Sidford F. Hamp

12o. Illustrated by Belmore Browne.
Price, $1.25; by mail, $1.35

The “twins,” though not brothers, are of one age and have been brought up together. They are partners, in fact, in spirit, in the stirring adventures of frontier life that the story records. It tells how they get their start in life by an act of service, and how clean in thought, clear in head, with courage and brawn, they win their way, starting as market gardeners and ending as owners of a valuable mine.

Connie Morgan with the Mounted

By
James B. Hendryx

Author of “Connie Morgan in Alaska”

12o. Illustrated. $1.25 net. By mail, $1.35

It tells how “Sam Morgan’s Boy,” well known to readers of Mr. Hendryx’s “Connie Morgan in Alaska,” daringly rescued a man who was rushing to destruction on an ice floe and how, in recognition of his quick-wittedness and nerve, he was made a Special Constable in the Northwest Mounted Police, with the exceptional adventures that fell to his lot in that perilous service. It is a story of the northern wilderness, clean and bracing as the vigorous, untainted winds that sweep over that region; the story of a boy who wins out against the craft of Indians and the guile of the bad white man of the North; the story of a boy who succeeds where men fail.

The Treasure of Mushroom Rock

A Story of Prospecting in the Rocky Mountains

By
Sidford F. Hamp

12o. Illustrated. $1.25 net. By mail, $1.35

This story concerns the adventure of two boys, one American and one English, who find themselves by mistake on a vessel bound for New Orleans. Fearing to return to England, they journey to the mining town of Golconda in Utah, which they reach after an adventure with train robbers. In company with a relative of one of the boys they proceed upon a hunting and prospecting expedition, during which they meet with many exciting adventures, but finally succeed in securing the treasure of Mushroom Rock. The story is bound to be of great interest to every boy.

G. P. Putnam’s Sons
New York London

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

The illustration listed in the List of Illustrations as facing page 90 does not appear in this edition of the print book.

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

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Table of Contents

- DANNY THE DETECTIVE
- CONTENTS
- ILLUSTRATIONS
- CHAPTER I IN THE STRAW-LOFT
- CHAPTER II THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER
- CHAPTER III THE MILL POND
- CHAPTER IV ONE A.M.
- CHAPTER V THE DARK PASSAGE
- CHAPTER VI SPIES!
- CHAPTER VII A WHITE FACE IN THE MOONLIGHT
- CHAPTER VIII TAPPING THE CABLE
- CHAPTER IX FREE!
- CHAPTER X IN THE HANDS OF THE SCOUTS
- CHAPTER XI CAUGHT AT LAST
- CHAPTER XII “WELL DONE, DANNY!”
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE