Evening Republican, Volume 20, Number 272, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 13 November 1916 — Under Fire [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

Under Fire

By Richard Parker

Ba*«d on th« drami of Roi Cooper Metfrue Author of ••UNDER COVER.** and Co-Author of ••IT PAYS TO ADVER.TISE’*

SYNOPSIS. —l2 The chief characters are Ethel Willoughby. Henry Streetman and Capt. L*rry Redmond. The minor characters are Sir George Wagstaft of the British admiralty and Charles Brown, a New York newspaper correspondent. Ethel, a resident of Sir George's household, secretly married to Streetman, a German spy. though sh# did not know him as such. Captain Redmond, her old lover, returns to England after long absence. From him she learns the truth about Streetman; furthermore, that he has betrayed her simply to learn naval secrete. The European war breaks out. Ethei prepares to accompany Streetman to Brussels as a German spy In order to get revenge and serve England. Captain Redmond. Ethel and Charlie Brown turn up at a Belgian inn as the German army comes. She is Madame de Lorde. She begins to work with a French spy. The Germans appear at the inn. Madame de Lorde shows a German secret service medal and convinces the invaders that she Is a German spy. Charlie Brown barely escapes execution.

CHAPTER XVl—Continued.

“Quite so!” the major agreed, “par ticularly as I like Americans. . . . And 1 would not wish to see any of them come to harm," he added significantly. In his reply there was more than a hint that behind his urbanity and seeming good nature there lay an immeasurable capacity for tbe stern duties of a German patriot, who would unhesitatingly kill any who might stand in the path of victory. “Again I get you.” Mr. Brown said,. “But what are you going to do with me?” “I shall give you a pass through our lines that will take you safely back to Brussels.” Charlie heard him with dismay. “But I want to go to the front,” he protested. “Yon have surprised a certain movement of the German army,” the major pointed out to him. “It is best you go to Brussels.”

Some objection bad already leaped to Charlie’s lips when the door from the street was thrown open and a uniformed man—an officer —pushed across the threshold. Advancing into the room he exclaimed as he saluted: "Ah, my dear major!” Both officers clicked their heels together. And as he returned the salute Major von Brenlg told the other that he had been expecting him. Charlie Brown had started at the sight of the new arrival. And now he moved nearer to the man.

“By George, it’s old Streetman!” he cried. “I beg your pardon—who is this man?” the arrogant Streetman (he was now Strassman) asked the major. “Charles Brown, a journalist from the United States,” Major von Brenig explained. Henry Streetman remembered Charlie then. , “Oh, yes! I recall him,” he said disagreeably. “What is he doing with us?” “We found him staying here,” the

major told him. “My men nearly shot him as an English spy.” "It seems almost a pity they didn’t,” Streetman observed, with a dark look at the newspaper man. “He may be in our way,” he said. Mr. Brown thought it about time to resent Streetman's insolence. “Really, didn’t I meet you in Russia some years ago?” he inquired. . Streetman eyed him coolly. “No. never!” he snapped. “I have never been In Russia.” "Haven’t you?” Charlie exclaimed with a fine show of innocence. "Why —l’ve heard —” “You’d best keep what you’ve heard to yourself,” Streetman interrupted him. He stepped close to Charlie so that the major could not hear what he said. And he scowled at the American like the heavy villain of some melodrama. But Mr. Brown paid scant heed to the menace in the fellow’s eyes. Somehow, he felt that be bad established

fairly cordial relations with the major —Streetman’s superior officer. And he did not believe that it lay within the spy's power to injure him greatly. At the warning tbe fellow half whispered to him Charlie merely smiled. “Think so?” he taunted the threatening Streetman. “Yes! Remember now you are inside our lines.” And drawing the major to one side, Streetman said—“ Major, wfcuit shall we do with him?” “Send him hack to Brussels,” von Breuig told him. “Perhaps we can find a better fate for him than that. ... Is he safe here?” Henry Streetman remembered that the American had shown plainly enough—that afternoon at the house of Sir George Wagstaff—that he was in sympathy with the enemies of Germany. And now had come an opportunity to make the fellow pay for his animosity. “He is quite safe,” von Brenig said. And turning to the sergeant he ordered him to remove the American to an adjoining room. Sergeant Schmidt at once proceeded to carry out instructions. And seizing one of Mr. Brown’s ears in a firm grip he started him out of the room. “You will remain here temporarily as my guest,” the major explained. “But I should not advise you to attempt to leave.” “Listen, blondy—” Mr. Brown adjured his evil genius—for so the enthusiastic sergeant appeared to him—“confidentially, because I know you won’t repeat it, if the French army misses you I’ll never forgive them.”

CHAPTER XVII.

A Wall —and a Firing Squad. As the door closed behind the sergeant and his prey, Streetman turned to Major von Brenlg. “The damned Americans, we shall have trouble with them yet,” he asserted. “I hope not. They are not a bad people,” the more moderate major replied. “Oh, major—have my English clothes —my civilian clothes —arrived from Berlin?” Streetman asked. “Yes. They are upstairs with my kit.” “Good! Then I can start tonight for the British trenches,” the spy exclaimed. The older man looked at him somewhat dubiously. “You think then that your plan to be captured by the English will succeed ?” « “It must succeed. This is a map of their positions.” He drew a paper from his breast pocket and unfolded it. “The very keystone to their entrenchments!” he exulted. “It will be here at trench 27” —Streetman made a mark upon the map—“it will be here that I shall be found,” he said. “Trench 27!” von Brenig repeated. “l r es! I shall be skulking around—and be taken prisoner. Then I shall give the English false information about a surprise attack that will enabletou to break through their lines and smash them!”

“Splendid! Splendid!” von Brenig cried. “By the way—” he added, as an important detail came into his mind—“a man arrived here this afternoon from the Wilhelmstrasse on a special mission.” “Yes? Who is he?” “A Captain Karl!” Major von Brenig said. “You know him?” “No! And I must meet him.” “Y'ou don’t suspect—” “No, no!” Streetman assured him. “At the Wilhelmstrasse few of us know one another; still, we canilot be too careful.” “He dines with us,” the major explained. “And then we shall look him over,” Streetman said with satisfaction. “Auf wiedersehen!” And Major von Brenig went to his room, congratulatiug himself the while upon the fact that he had so resourceful an assistant in that able young officer from the Wilhelmstrasse.

Henry Streetman lighted a cigarette, tossing the still blazing match into the fireplace. And he had not waited long bgfore Henri Christophe appeared. “Major von Brenig wishes to dine at once,” the spy told him. “How soon can you be ready?” “In fifteen minutes, m’sieu.” “Good! There will be three of us— Major von Brenig, myself and Captain Karl.” “Yes, m’sieu.” Henri had already turned to hurry back to the kitchen when a bright blaze in the fireplace met his astonished eyes. It entirely too warm an afternoon for l a fire. Only a madman would have built one. “Why, what is that?” he exclaimed. “I lit a cigarette,” Streetman said. “I threw my match there.” And to one of the soldiers he added, “Put It out at once!” The mgn Otto .hurried to 'the fireplace. “Yes, yes, m’sieu! It is nothing! Only some tree branches—it can do no harm,” the innkeeper protested. In the meantime Otto had extinguished the blaze. He had crawled bodily inside the great opening of the fireplace, to make sure that he did his work thoroughly. Amd now he emerged.

sooty hut triumphant, bearing some contrivance in his arms. “Here is a telephone!” he announced proudly. “What!” Streetman exclaimed. And he hastened to exnmine the find. “Oh, ho! What’s this?” he asked. Henri Christophe was no less surprised than the others. He took the instrument from Otto and turned It over curiously. “Why, m’sieu—it is a telephone,” he said with an air of the utmost mystification.

“I know, I know—but what is it doing there?” Streetman asked imperiously. “I do not know, m’sieu,” Christophe stammered. In a flash he saw that things looked very black for himself. “Why did you hide it?” Already Streetman had found him guilty. “I did not hide it, m’sieu!” An inspiration seized Streetman then. And he took the telephone into his own hands.

“Who are you?” he asked in French, speaking directly into the transmitter. The fellow received an immediate reply. And he said to his men in the next breath, “It was a Frenchman who spoke! That telephone leads to the French. It is the work of a spy.” And then Streetman ordered Otto’s comrade Hans to ask Major von Brenig to return.

Poor Henri Christophe forgot all about his simple menu. He stood there, crestfallen. The whole affair was too much for his befogged brain. “You were warned against any attempt to communicate with the enemy,” Streetman said. “I never saw that telephone before,” Christophe declared. “Don’t lie to me! You put It there!” “I swear to you—” The innkeeper held both his hands aloft as he proclaimed his innocence. But his protestations had no effect upon the indignant Streetman. The man seemed absolutely relentless, inhuman. “You are either a French spy or harboring a spy under your roof,” he told Christophe. “It is an act of enmity to us. You must pay the penalty at once.” “On ray honor I have done nothing—absolutely nothing!” Henri Christophe cried. Even in that moment his thoughts were upon his daughter Jeanne rather than upon himself. He was afraid — for her.

“Our proclamations have told you what to expect,” Streetman snarled. “It will be a good warning to the others,” he added grimly. The Belgian Innkeeper stared at him as if in a trance. “Before God, I am innocent!” he asserted. The callous Streetman paid not the slightest heed to his denials. In a most brisk and businesslike manner he commanded the corporal to call in the guard and make ready a firing squad—“against the wall outside,” he said. Then little Jeanne Christophe opened one of the doors timidly. Some errand had necessitated her entering the room. And when she saw her father’s ashen lace it needed little intuition to tell her that there was some tragedy impending. With a low cry she sprang to her father's side.

“My father —my father —what is it?” she asked him. “R> is a spy,” Streetman said contemptuously. “Non, non, m’sieu!” she cried. 1 “Wait! . . . Come here!” he ordered her roughly. And Henri Christophe whispered to her to obey. “You have seen that telephone before?” Streetman inquired. Already the corporal had returned with four men, bearing rifles. “No, no! Never in all my life!” the girl wailed. “Your father hid it there,” he Insisted. “Non, non. m’sieu!” she said with all the vehemence she could muster. —“Enough of talking!” Streetman said with a cruel glance at her white face. “Take him out!” he ordered the corporal. For one brief moment father and daughter clasped each other in a last embrace.

“It is the end, my little Jeanne! Goigdjby! Tray for me!” Henri Christophe said brokenly. And in that instant a new dignity came to him—a dignity such as must have clothed the ancient martyrs, or that later tragic figure, for whom his own daughter was named —Jeanne d’Arc —when the supreme summons overtook them. “It is all over, ma petite,” he repeated. And then he drew himself up to his fullest height and looked at his unyielding judge unflinchingly. “I am innocent, m’sieu!” he said. . . . Those were the last words that Henri Christophe spoke. V Henry Streetman made a gesture of impatience. The scene bored him. Jeanne Christophe burst into a wild torrent of words. Alternately she addressed Streetman and her father. “No, no, no!” she shrieked, as if she could not have that frightful thing—that monstrosity—happen. “Oh, m’sieu! For the love of God! . . . My father . . . I pray, you. . . . No, no! He is jbj father. . . . . I love thee, I love thee!” she sobbed. . » • “Oh. m’sieu—;! beg you—”

“Take him out!” That was Streetman's only answer. Little Jeanne would not leave her father’s side. As they dragged Henri Christophe from the room she still clung to him. And still Bhe shrieked; “For the love of God! No, no! Oh, papa, oh, papa! I love thee. . . ."

Major von Brenig looked Inquiringly at his colleague from tbe Wllhelmstrasse. “You wanted me, captain?” he asked. “The proprietor here is a spy,” Streetman said. “Christophe—a spy? Are you sure?” “Absolutely sure!” Streetman replied. “This telephone leads to the French. And I have settled the affair.” Even as he spoke a scream from out-

side reached their ears—a woman’s scream. And immediately there followed the sound of a volley. Major vori Brenig turned his head and listened. _j “Ah, mon pere!” It was Jeanne Christophe sobbing. Already she had flung herself upon her father’s riddled body. Major von Brenig cast a reproving glance at his haughty fellow officer. “Good God—so soon? Without investigation?” he exclaimed. “What if he were innocent?” But Streetman had no misgivings. "Ah! Tt will be a lesson to these others,” he said carelessly. In the adjoining room Charlie Brown and the German sergeant had heard those shots. And now they burst upon the two officers in great excitement. “What happened? Is it the French?” Charlie called.

_ “It is finished—the damned spy!” Streetman rejoined. “What’s happened?” Charlie asked again. “A matter of war,” the major told him briefly—“that Is not on my conscience.” He was far from approving of Streetman’s hasty action. “The execution of a spy!” Streetman interposed. And the words were hardly out of his mouth before several privates squeezed through the entrance to the keeperless inn. There were two files; and between them they bore a stretcher, upon which there lay something covered with a sheet. A little distance behind the gruesome procession Jeanne Christophe followed sobbing. One glance told Charlie Brown what rested upon that stretcher —that it was the body of someone who but a few moments hefore had stood there in the

slanting sunlight of the summer afternoon and faced the firing squad. Out of respect he removed his hat. He did not know who the unfortunate might have been. But nevertheless he was profoundly shocked. “Poor devil, I’m sorry for him—whoever he was!” he said. Major von Brenig drew a paper from a pocket of his coat. “Here is your pass,” he told the American as he handed him the document. “We have decided that you shall go to Brussels,” he added. The major appeared to be in something of a hurry to speed the parting guest He was, as a matter of fact, disturbed that the unfortunate execution had taken place under the very nose of a New York newspaper man. And now he wished to hasten Mr. Brown upon his way before he had further opportunity to pry into the details of the tragedy. “But as I told you—” Charlie Brown began, taking the pass from the officer, “as I told you, I want to—” _ “It is not a matter for argument,” Major von Brenig said stiflfiy. “And you had best start at once,” Streetnjam added. saw thjjt his aspirations to proceed back of the German lines were doomed. And now he accepted the situation as cheerfully as be could. , (TO BE CONTINUED.)

“What is He Doinfl With Us?"

“Against the Wall Outside,” He Said.