glement
somewhat similar to that on the American side of the morass. But here
a narrow path had been opened for the patrol.

"Halt! Who goes there?" croaked the sentinel.

"_Ein Freund_!"

The major gave the reply in a guttural tone. He stepped forward and
whispered to the sentinel. Evidently he had the password of the
Germans, as he had had that of the Americans!

Ruth followed on through the wires. They crossed a narrow field and
were again challenged. Here a sergeant was brought to confer with the
disguised Frenchman. But it was all right. He and his companion were
passed, and they were led on by the sergeant.

They went over several bridges which spanned the front trenches and
then their escort left them. Major Marchand seized Ruth's hand and
held it for a moment.

"Rejoice, Fraulein!" he whispered. "We are through the lines."

CHAPTER XXIII

THE GARDENER'S COT

Ruth Fielding thought afterward that Major Marchand must possess the
eyes of a cat. And his sense of locality was as highly developed as
that of a feline as well.

In the midst of the wood into which they had come out from the German
trenches he discovered a path leading to a tiny hut, which seemed
entirely surrounded by thick brush.

He left her waiting for a moment while he ventured within. Then he
came to the door and touched Ruth's sleeve.

"I can never know who is waiting for me here," he whispered.

"Your brother?"

"No, no! Some day they will suspect--these Boches--and they will find
my little lodge. You know, Fraulein, the pitcher that too often goes
to the well is at last broken."

She understood his meaning. At last he would be caught. It was the
fate of most spies.

He lit a smoky lamp; but it gave light enough for her to see that the
hut was all but empty. It must have been a swineherd's cot at a
pre-war date. There was a table, a sawed-off log for a chair, a
cupboard hanging against the wall, and a heap of straw in a corner for
a bed.

This he pushed aside until he revealed beneath it a box like a coffin,
buried in the dirt floor. Its cover was hinged.

From this hidden receptacle he drew forth the complete uniform of a
Uhlan lieutenant. "Turn your back for a little, Fraulein," he said
softly. "I must make a small change in my toilet."

He removed the muddy rubber suit and the helmet. Likewise, the smock,
and baggy trousers, like those worn by Nicko the chocolate peddler. In
a trice he clot