Part 39 (2/2)

”By the way?” said Red Tabs, as I rose to go, ”would you care to see Clubfoot's epitaph? I kept it for you.” He handed me a German newspaper--the _Berliner Tageblatt_, I think it was--with a paragraph marked in red pencil. I read:

”We regret to report the sudden death from apoplexy of Dr. Adolf Grundt, an inspector of secondary schools. The deceased was closely connected for many years with a number of charitable inst.i.tutions enjoying the patronage of the Emperor. His Majesty frequently consulted Dr. Grundt regarding the distribution of the sums allocated annually from the Privy purse for benevolent objects.”

”Pretty fair specimen of Prussian cynicism?” laughed Red Tabs. But I held my head ... the game was too deep for me.

Every week a hamper of good things is dispatched to 3143 Sapper Ebenezer Maggs, British Prisoner of War, Gefangenen-Lager, Friedrichsfeld bei Wesel. I have been in communication with his people, and since his flight from the camp they have not had a line from him. They will let me know at once if they hear, but I am restless and anxious about him.

I dare not write lest I compromise him: I dare not make official enquiry as to his safety for the same reason. If he survived those shots in the dark, he is certainly undergoing punishment, and in that case he would be deprived of the privilege of writing or receiving letters....

But the weeks slip by and no message comes to me from Chewton Mendip.

Almost daily I wonder if the gallant lad survived that night to return to the misery of the starvation camp, or whether, out of the darkness of the forest, his brave soul soared free, achieving its final release from the sufferings of this world.... Poor Sapper Maggs!

Francis and Monica are honeymooning on the Riviera. Gerry, I am sure, would have refused to attend the wedding, only he wasn't asked. Francis is getting a billet on the Intelligence out in France when his leave is up.

I have got my step, antedated back to the day I went into Germany.

Francis has been told that something is coming to him and me in the New Year's Honours.

I don't worry much. I am going back to the front on Christmas Eve.

THE END

THE RETURN OF CLUBFOOT

By Valentine Williams.

Whilst spending a holiday in a small Central American Republic, Desmond Okewood, of the Secret Service, learns from a dying beach-comber of a hidden treasure.

With the a.s.sistance of a millionaire, he sets out for c.o.c.k Island, in the Pacific. To his astonishment he discovers that the Man with the Clubfoot, whom he had regarded as dead, has antic.i.p.ated him. It is obvious to Okewood that his old enemy is also in search of the hidden gold, and there ensues a thrilling sequence of adventures, in which the millionaire's pretty niece takes a prominent part.

Okewood has the cipher, and the Man with the Clubfoot determines to secure it, for without that cipher it is impossible to discover the hiding-place of the treasure; but there is something that the Man with the Clubfoot does not know, whereas Okewood does.

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