comfortable in his mind. That little incident of the hospital ship Bentali persisted in recurring. There might be awkward questions asked. But never mind: the English would be afraid to take reprisals upon him. They looked like losing the war, consequently they would treat their prisoners with consideration lest vengeance overtook them.

It was a truly Prussian view, and one almost implicitly believed in throughout Germany. It accounted for the humane treatment of German prisoners in England. Only those who are bound to win can, according to Prussian ideas, override all the articles of the Geneva Convention, With them war was a demonstration of brutality—relentless and pitiless. The vanquished was expected to receive no mercy. When the Huns were worsted they hardly expected clemency, and when, as prisoners of war, they received both clemency and a certain amount of consideration they could only put it down to the faint-heartedness of their captors, who, knowing that they were on the losing side, were anxious to ingratiate themselves with victorious Prussia.

"By Jove! What a pity we've hauled him out of the ditch!" exclaimed Seton, after he had visited the prisoner and had courteously inquired after his health. "The fellow looked at me as if I were a Boche conscript. I'd like to have him in the ship's company for a week—no, I wouldn't. I wouldn't like to think that my men would have to endure his precious society for five minutes."

So for the next forty-eight hours Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert was left severely alone by the officers of H.M.S. Bolero, the one exception being the doctor, whose efforts for his injured enemy were untiring.

At last the slowly-moving convoy passed Yarmouth and sighted the Cork Lightship off the entrance to Harwich Harbour. Here the unwieldy tramps were practically immune from hostile action, for the air was stiff with aircraft and airships, while for miles round the sea was dotted with swiftly-moving destroyers, M.-L.'s, and submarine-chasers. It was no place for Fritz to show his nose, and to his discretion, if not to his credit, he left the approaches to Harwich severely alone.

A wireless telegraphist, holding a folded slip of buff paper, ran up the bridge-ladder, and saluting Alec, who had just taken over as Officer of the Watch, handed him message.

"Wireless just gone through, sir," he reported. "General signal to the convoy."

Seton took the proffered signal-pad, read the message, and elevated his eyebrows. Long experience in naval matters had taught him never to show unwonted surprise at any order that might come through at any hour of the day or night. But this, on the face of it, seemed remarkable.

Briefly, the convoy was to be split up, the major portion going into Harwich to await further orders. Four of the slowest tramps, escorted by the destroyers, Bolero and Triadur, were to proceed to the Nord Hinder Lightship, there to stand by until instructions were sent to the destroyers by the S.N.O.

"Wonder if the tramps are Q-boats after all," soliloquized Alec. "One doesn't know t'other from which in these jolly old times. . . . Chance of luring Fritz and seeing a bit of life, eh, what?"

Five minutes later the convoy acted according to orders, the two destroyers and their sluggish charges shaping an easterly course through the mine-infested North Sea.

CHAPTER IV

Torpedoed

"Port five—steady."

"Port five it is, sir."

Alec Seton, sheltering under the lee of the bridge dodger, raised his binoculars and peered steadfastly through the gloom. It was night. Patches of fog were ganging around with irritating persistency, as if bent on following and hampering the Bolero's movements. There was just sufficient headwind to throw cascades of icy cold spray over the destroyer's flaring bows. The breeze whistled mournfully through the rigging, while aft a long trail of black smoke, beaten down by the heavy atmosphere, hung sullenly over the short, vicious seas. According to reckoning the Nord Hinder lay 5 miles east by north.

It was not idle curiosity that had prompted Seton to order the course to be altered. Less than a mile away was something showing black and ill-defined even to the powerful night-glasses. It might be anything from a derelict tramp to an abandoned boat. It might be a German submarine or a sea-going torpedo-boat flying, or rather supposed to be flying, the craven Black Cross Ensign of Germany.

Whatever it was, it was Seton's duty to investigate, taking proper precautions in the event of the object turning out to be a hostile warship.

There was also the possibility—almost the probability—that the strange craft, if a craft it were, might be a British or Allied vessel. In any case, before the Bolero could open fire she had to establish the national identity of the stranger. A Hun was under no such obligation. He could open fire indiscriminately, not caring whether his target were a hostile or a neutral vessel.

Again Alec raised his binoculars. By this time the Triadur and the convoy were two or three miles to the sou'east. The Bolero's crew were at action stations, ready at the word of command to let loose every quick-firer that could be brought to bear upon the enemy craft.

"What do you make of her?" inquired the Lieutenant-Commander, who, acquainted with the alteration of course, had joined his subordinate on the bridge.

Before Seton could express his opinion the question was answered. Two vivid flashes stabbed the darkness, while a few seconds later a couple of shells burst two hundred yards beyond the British destroyer.

Almost immediately the Bolero returned the compliment. Her salvo hit exactly on the spot that her gun-layers aimed at—but it pitched into and partly dispersed a cloud of smoke. The wily Fritz had been approaching stern foremost, and directly the German boat fired she went full speed ahead, at the same time releasing an enormous smokescreen.

From the British Senior Officer's ship a message flashed:

"Stand in pursuit; will remain by the convoy."

It was an order after Lieutenant-Commander Richard Trevannion's own heart, and of that of every member of the ship's company.

Telegraphing for full speed ahead, Trevannion stood in pursuit. Boat for boat the British destroyer had the advantage both in speed and armament, but already the Hun had gained in distance, and, taking advantage of the smoke screen, was now nothing but an indistinct blur in the night. It remained for the Bolero to keep her quarry within sight, and then the momentarily increasing speed would begin to tell.

Firing steadily with her pair of fo'c'sle quick-firers the Bolero held on. Her whole frame vibrated under the pulsations of her powerful engines. The wind no longer whistled through the scanty wire rigging: it absolutely shrieked. At times the for'ard guns' crews were knee-deep in water, as the destroyer literally punched her way through the waves.

"A near one, Sir," exclaimed Alec, as a shell burst within twenty yards of the Bolero's port quarter, some of the splinters cutting jagged holes in the two after funnels.

Trevannion smiled grimly.

"Yes, Fritz can shoot straight sometimes," he replied. "No casualties aft, I hope?"

A signalman ran aft to make inquiries.

"No, sir," he replied on his return; "the after quick-firer's crew——"

A terrific detonation, almost instantly followed by an enormous column of water, interrupted the signalman's remarks anent the after quick-firer's gun's crew. The Bolero seemed to be lifted clean out of the water; then she listed heavily to starboard. Clouds of flame-tinged smoke, mingled with hissing jets of steam, were issuing from the engine-room.

"Fritz has bagged us, my festive!" remarked Trevannion, when the two officers recovered their senses, of