I may be mistaken, but I understood you to say that you didn't land,' observed the German, in a low careless voice that nevertheless held a hard, steely quality.

Biggles raised his eyebrows. 'No, you were not mistaken,' he replied; 'why did you say that?'

I was wondering how the wheel marks got there, that's all.'

Biggles laughed. 'Oh, those,' he said. 'Those were the marks made by my home-made trailer, I expect-have a cigarette?'

He offered his case as if his explanation of such a trivial point was sufficient-as indeed it was.

Of course,' said von Stalhein, slowly-very slowly. 'Funny, I didn't think of that.'

One cannot always expect to think of everything,' rejoined Biggles simply. 'What does the Count want-do you know?'

'Here he is, so he'll tell you himself,' answered von Stalhein shortly.

Biggles sprang to attention. 'Good morning, sir,' he said.

'Good morning, Brunow- morning, Erich. Going to be hot again,' observed the Count, dropping into his chair behind the desk. And then, glancing up at Biggles, he asked, 'Has Hauptmann von Stalhein told you what we were discussing last night?'

'No, sir.'

I see.' The Count unfastened his stiff upright collar. 'Well, the position is this,' he went on. 'As you are no doubt aware, the chief reason why you were sent here was because of your knowledge of the English and their language. It was thought that you might be able to undertake duties that would be impossible for a-one of our own people. You have a British R.F.C. uniform, and we have British aeroplanes, yet neither have been fully exploited. In fact, you are rapidly becoming an ordinary flying officer engaged on routine duties, and in that capacity you have done remarkably well; in fact, if it goes on one of the Staffels will be putting in a request for you to be posted to them. I think it's time we did something about it, don't you?'

as you wish, sir. I have thought about it myself, but I didn't mention it because I thought you'd give me orders for special duty when you were ready.'

'Quite so.' The Count turned to von Stalhein. 'We shall make a good German officer of him yet, Erich,' he observed dryly, in German.

'Thank you, sir,' put in Biggles absent-mindedly, in the 'same language.

ah-ha, so you are progressing with your German, too,' a.s.serted the Count, raising his eyebrows.

Biggles flushed slightly, for the words had slipped out unthinkingly. 'I'm doing my best, and what with my book and conversations in the Mess, I am picking it up slowly,' he explained.

'Capital. But let us come to this business we are here for,' continued the Count. He lit a long black cigar and studied the glowing end closely before he went on. 'Last night I was merely concerned with the idea of sending you over to the British lines for a day or two to pick up any odd sc.r.a.ps of information that might be useful, paying particular regard to the preparations the British are making for the attack we know is soon to be launched near Gaza-at least, everything points to the battle being fought there. Since then, however, a blow has fallen the importance of which cannot be exaggerated. It is, in fact, the most serious set-back we have had for a long time. Fortunately it does not affect us personally, but I hear that General Headquarters in Jerusalem is in a fever about it; if we could recover what we have lost, it would be a feather in our caps.'

In your cap, you mean,' thought Biggles, but he said nothing.

'Tell me, Brunow'-the Count dropped his voice to little more than a whisper-'have you ever heard of one who is called El Shereef?'

Had he pulled out a revolver and fired point blank he could hardly have given Biggles a bigger shock. How he kept his face immobile he never knew, for the words set every nerve in his body jangling. He pretended to think for a moment before he replied. 'I seem to recall it, sir, but in what connexion I cannot think-yes, I have it. You remember the first day I came here I landed at Kantara. I heard some of the officers in the Mess using the name quite a lot, but I didn't pay much attention to it.'

'Then I will tell you. El Shereef was a-an agent, a German agent. Not only was he the cleverest agent in Palestine, but in the world.'

'Was . . . ?'

'He has been caught at last.'

Biggles felt the room rocking about him, but he continued staring straight at the Count, struggling to prevent his face from betraying what he was thinking. 'What a pity,' he said at last. For the life of him he couldn't think of anything else to say.

'Pity! it's a tragedy-an overwhelming misfortune. He was taken yesterday in a cunningly set trap by Major Sterne, who as you may know is one of the cleverest men on the British side.'

'By Major Sterne,' repeated Biggles foolishly.

The Count nodded. 'So we understand. The British have made no announcement about it-nor do we expect them to-yet. But General Headquarters, by means known only to themselves, got the news through late last night.'

Von Stalhein was lighting a fresh cigarette as if the matter hardly interested him.

Biggles tried to think, but could not. His mind seemed to have collapsed in complete chaos as all his so-called facts, conjectures, and suppositions crashed to the ground. He could hardly follow what the Count was saying when he continued.

'Well, there it is. The British will give him a trial-of sorts-of course, but we shall know only one thing more for certain-and that soon-and that is that El Shereef has faced a firing party. If you are to do anything it will have to be done at once.'

'Do anything, sir,' e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Biggles. 'Me! What can I do?'

'You can get into the British lines. I was hoping that you might try to effect a rescue.'

Biggles nearly laughed aloud, for he felt that he was going insane. Was the Count seriously asking him to rescue El Shereef, when . . . ? The thing was too utterly ridiculous. He saw the Count was waiting for his answer. 'I'll do anything I can, sir,' he offered. 'If you could give me any further information that might be useful I should be grateful.'

The Count shook his head. 'All I can tell you is that El Shereef will probably be sent under special escort to British General Headquarters for interrogation.'

'Then I'd better go over and do what I can,' said Biggles thoughtfully; and then added in a flash of inspiration, 'Can you give me any idea of what he looks like, so that I shall be able to recognize him when I see him?'

'Yes, I can do that,' agreed the Count. 'He is, as you no doubt imagine, really a German, although he will of course be dressed as an Arab. He has lived with the Arabs for so long that he is nearly one of them-looks Arab-thinks Arab-speaks Arabic. Tall, brown-really brown, not merely grease paint-drooping black moustache. Dark eyes, and rather a big nose, like the beak of a hawk. Not much of a description, but it's the best I can give you. If you can get near him, show your ring and he'll understand. He will still have his hidden about him if the British didn't take it away when they searched him.'

'Very good, sir; I'll get off right away.' Biggles did not so much as glance at von Stalhein as he saluted, turned on his heel and departed to his room.

When he reached it he slumped down wearily on his bed and gave expression to his disappointment and mortification, for his feelings at that moment were not unlike those of a very tired man who, in the act of sitting down, realizes that some one has pulled the chair away from under him. After a period of deadly risk and anxiety he thought he had the situation well summed up, and all he needed to do to win was to play his trump cards carefully. The knowledge that his cards were useless was a disappointment not easily overcome, and it was followed by an almost overwhelming sense of depression, for if what the Count had told him was true, he had been running on a false scent all along. The only redeeming thing about the new development was that, if the British had really caught El Shereef, then this work was finished, and there was no longer any reason why he should stay at Zabala. Officially, his retirement from the scene would now be permissible, even though he had failed, but he knew he could not conscientiously do so while in his heart he was still certain that von Stalhein was engaged in some sinister scheme about which the British authorities knew nothing. Suppose the story were not true? Suppose the whole thing was pure fabrication, a story invented by the Count and von Stalhein to draw a red herring across the trail of British agents whom they suspected-or knew-to be engaged in counter-espionage behind their lines. Conversely, might it not be a gigantic piece of bluff devised by the British Intelligence Staff to mislead the Germans, or cause them to make a move which might betray the very man whom they claimed to have caught? Both theories were possible.

Thinking the new situation over, Biggles felt like a man who, faced with the task of unravelling a tangled ball of string, sees a dozen ends sticking out, but does not know which is the right one. 'I've had a few bone-shakers since I started this job, but this one certainly is a bazouka,' he mused. 'Well, I suppose I'd better do something about it, and the best thing I can do is to push off through the atmosphere to Kantara to find out how much truth there is in it.'

He changed into his R.F.C. uniform, pulled his overalls on over it, went down to the tarmac, ordered out the Bristol Fighter, and landed at Kantara exactly thirty-five minutes later. He taxied up to the hangars, and telling the duty N.C.O. to leave his machine where it was in case he needed it urgently, went straight to Major Raymond's tent.

He found the Major working at his desk.

'Good morning, Bigglesworth-'

But Biggles was too impatient to indulge in conventional greetings. 'Is this tale true about your catching El Shereef, sir,' he asked abruptly.

'Quite true.'

Biggles stared. 'Well, I'll be shot for the son of a gun,' he muttered. 'You're quite sure-I mean, you're not just spinning a yarn?'

'Good gracious, no. But how did you know about it?'

'Von Faubourg told me this morning.'

'He wasn't long getting the news then.'

'So it seems. How did you work it?'

'Sterne did it. He's been on the trail for some time, working in his own way. He managed to pick up a clue and laid a pretty trap, and El Shereef, cunning as he is, walked straight into it.'

'That's what the Huns told me,' nodded Biggles. 'It begins to look as if it's true.'

Of course it's true-we've got him here.'

'What! at Kantara?'

'Well, at Jebel Zaloud, the village just behind. General Headquarters are there. They've had El Shereef there trying to get some information out of him, but it's no use. He won't speak. He won't do anything else if it comes to that-won't eat or drink. He's an Arab, you know.'

arab? You mean he's disguised as an Arab?'

If it's a disguise, then it's a thundering good one.' It would be. He's lived amongst the Arabs half his life, until he is one, or as near as makes no difference.

The Count told me so himself.'

I don't know about that, but it's no wonder things went wrong over here. He is-or rather, was-one of our most trusted Sheikhs. He's a fellow with a big following, too.'

'How do you know it's El Shereef?'

'Sterne was sure of it before he collared him. When we took him he was wearing one of those same rings that you've got-the German Secret Service ring. I've got it here: here it is. He had also got some very interesting doc.u.ments on him-plans of British positions, and so on.'

Biggles picked up the ring that the Major had tossed on to the table and looked at it with interest. 'I should like to see this cove,' he said quietly.

I think it could be arranged, although I can't see much point in it. You'll have to make haste, though.' 'Why?'

'He was tried by a specially convened Field General Court Martial this morning and sentenced to death.'

'Good G.o.d! When is sentence to be carried out?'

'To-day, some time. He's too tricky a customer to keep hanging about. He'll certainly be shot before sundown.'

Biggles jaw set grimly. 'That's awkward,' he said. 'Why?'

'Because I've been sent over here to rescue him.'

It was the Major's turn to look startled. 'Are you serious?' he asked incredulously.

'Too true 'I am.'

'What are you going to do about it?' Nothing-now. I'm through. If you've got the fellow, then that's the end of the story as far as I'm concerned.'

'That's what I thought; in fact, that's why I sent Lacey over to let you know.'

'You did what?'

'Sent Lacey over. I couldn't do less. There was no point in your going on risking your neck at Zabala.' 'Where's Algy now?'

'He's gone. He took off just before you landed. He's going to do the message-dropping stunt in the olive grove. It's a pity he went, but naturally I didn't expect the Huns would tell you about our catching El Shereef.'

Biggles nodded sagely. 'Which, to my mind, is a perfectly good reason why you might have guessed they'd do it,' he declared. 'In my experience, it's the very last thing that you'

d expect that always happens at this game. My word! dog-fighting* is child's play to it.'

'Well, what are you going to do? I'm busy over this affair, as you may imagine.'

'Just as a matter of curiosity I'd like to have a dekko at this nimble chap who is called El Shereef.'

'Very well; after what you've done we can hardly refuse such_ a natural request. I'll see if it can be arranged.' The Major reached for his telephone.

* An aerial battle rather than a hit and run attack.

Chapter 1 7.

Hare and Hounds Two hours later Biggles again sat in Major Raymond's tent with his face buried in his hands; the Major was busy writing on a pad. 'How's this?' he said, pa.s.sing two sheets of paper. 'The first is an official notification of the execution that will appear in to-night's confidential orders; the other is the notice that will be issued to the press. Naturally, we make as much of a thing like this as we can; it's good propaganda, and it bucks up the public at home to know that we are as quick-witted as the Huns.'

Biggles read the notices. 'They seem to be O.K., sir,' he said, pa.s.sing them back. 'I'll be going now,' he added, rising and picking up his cap.

'You still insist in going back to Zabala?'

I don't want to go, sir, don't think that, but I think it's up to me to try to get the truth about von Stalhein's game while I can come and go. I know I said I wouldn't go back, but I've been thinking it over. I shan't be long, anyway. If I find things are getting too hot I'll pack up and report here.'

as you wish,' agreed the Major.

Biggles walked towards the door. 'Cheerio for the present, then, sir,' he said. 'You might remember me to Algy when he comes back.'

'He's probably back by now; can't you stay and have a word with him?'

'No, I haven't time now; besides, I've nothing particular to talk about,' decided Biggles.

Lost in thought, he walked slowly back to where he had left his Bristol, climbed into the c.o.c.kpit, and took off. Still in a brown study, he hardly bothered to watch the sky, for while he was over the British side of the lines he had nothing to fear, and over the German side the white bar on his wings made him safe from attack from German aeroplanes.

Once he caught sight of a large formation of Pfalz Scouts, but he paid no attention to them; he did not even watch them but continued on a straight course for Zabala, still turning over in his mind the knotty problems that beset him.

It was, therefore, with a start of surprise and annoyance that he was aroused from his reverie by the distant clatter of a machine-gun, and while he was in the act of looking back for the source of the noise he was galvanized into activity by a staccato burst which he knew from experience was well inside effective range. Cursing himself for his carelessness, he half-rolled desperately, but not before he had felt the vicious thud of bullets ripping through his machine. 'What the d.i.c.kens do the fools think they're playing at?' he snarled, as he levelled out and saw that he was in the middle of a swarm of Pfalz. '

They must be blind,' he went on furiously, as he threw the Bristol into a steep bank in order to display the white bar on his top plane. But either the Germans did not see it or they deliberately ignored it, for two or three of them darted in, guns going, obviously with the intention of shooting him down.

Biggles knew that something had gone wrong, but the present was no time to wonder what it was. He must act quickly if he was to escape the fate that he had often meted out to others, but he was at once faced with a difficult problem. At the back of his mind still lingered the conviction that the Pfalz pilots had forgotten all about his distinguishing mark, and would presently see and remember it, but whether that was so or not, the only thing that really counted at the moment was that they were doing their best to kill him.

And by reason of their numbers they were likely to succeed. In the ordinary way, had he been flying a real British machine, the matter would not have worried him unduly; he would simply have fought the best fight he could as long as his machine held together and remained in the air. He had, in fact, fought against even greater odds and escaped, but then he had been able to give as good as he got. 'If I shoot any of these fellows down it puts the tin hat on my ever going back to Zabala, even if I do get away with it,' he thought desperately, as he turned round and round, kicking on right and left rudder alternately to avoid the streams of lead that were being poured at him from all directions.

He knew that the only thing he could do was to attempt to escape, either by trying to get back to the British lines, or by making a dash for Zabala, which was nearer. He would have spun down and landed had it been possible to land, but it was not, for the country below was a vast tract of broken rock and camel-thorn bushes. Nevertheless, he threw the Bristol into a spin with the object of getting as near to the ground as possible, and '