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“Not to me, you won’t,” declared his captor. “You’re going to drive straight to Judge Van Vorst’s, and explain to HIM!”

The stranger tossed his arms even higher. “Thank God!” he exclaimed gratefully.

With his prisoner Jimmie encountered no further trouble. He made a willing captive. And if in covering the five miles to Judge Van Vorst’s he exceeded the speed limit, the fact that from the rear seat Jimmie held the shotgun against the base of his skull was an extenuating circumstance.

They arrived in the nick of time. In his own car young Van Vorst and a bag of golf clubs were just drawing away from the house. Seeing the car climbing the steep driveway that for a half-mile led from his lodge to his front door, and seeing Jimmie standing in the tonneau brandishing a gun, the Judge hastily descended. The sight of the spy hunter filled him with misgiving, but the sight of him gave Jimmie sweet relief. Arresting German spies for a small boy is no easy task. For Jimmie the strain was great. And now that he knew he had successfully delivered him into the hands of the law, Jimmie’s heart rose with happiness. The added presence of a butler of magnificent bearing and of an athletic looking chauffeur increased his sense of security. Their presence seemed to afford a feeling of security to the prisoner also. As he brought the car to a halt, he breathed a sigh. It was a sigh of deep relief.

Jimmie fell from the tonneau. In concealing his sense of triumph, he was not entirety successful.

“I got him!” he cried. “I didn’t make no mistake about THIS one!”

“What one?” demanded Van Vorst.

Jimmie pointed dramatically at his prisoner. With an anxious expression the stranger was tenderly fingering the back of his head. He seemed to wish to assure himself that it was still there.

“THAT one!” cried Jimmie. “He’s a German spy!”

The patience of Judge Van Vorst fell from him. In his exclamation was indignation, anger, reproach.

“Jimmie!” he cried.

Jimmie thrust into his hand the map. It was his “Exhibit A.” “Look what he’s wrote,” commanded the scout. “It’s all military words. And these are his glasses. I took ’em off him. They’re made in GERMANY! I been stalking him for a week. He’s a spy!”

When Jimmie thrust the map before his face, Van Vorst had glanced at it. Then he regarded it more closely. As he raised his eyes they showed that he was puzzled.

But he greeted the prisoner politely.

“I’m extremely sorry you’ve been annoyed,” he said. “I’m only glad it’s no worse. He might have shot you. He’s mad over the idea that every stranger he sees–“

The prisoner quickly interrupted.

“Please!” he begged, “Don’t blame the boy. He behaved extremely well. Might I speak with you–ALONE?” he asked.

Judge Van Vorst led the way across the terrace, and to the smoking-room, that served also as his office, and closed the door. The stranger walked directly to the mantelpiece and put his finger on a gold cup.

“I saw your mare win that at Belmont Park,” he said. “She must have been a great loss to you?”

“She was,” said Van Vorst. “The week before she broke her back, I refused three thousand for her. Will you have a cigarette?”

The stranger waved aside the cigarettes.

“I brought you inside,” he said, “because I didn’t want your servants to hear; and because I don’t want to hurt that boy’s feelings. He’s a fine boy; and he’s a damned clever scout. I knew he was following me and I threw him off twice, but to-day he caught me fair. If I really had been a German spy, I couldn’t have got away from him. And I want him to think he has captured a German spy. Because he deserves just as much credit as though he had, and because it’s best he shouldn’t know whom he DID capture.”

Van Vorst pointed to the map. “My bet is,” he said, “that you’re an officer of the State militia, taking notes for the fall manoeuvres. Am I right?”