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 cigar-box and a silver lighter. “Listen, Paul,” Prokop began again, biting the end of a cigar, “thank you. Did you ever know a certain Thomas here?”

Mr. Paul raised his eyes to heaven in an effort of recollection. “I didn’t, please.”

“How many soldiers are there here?”

Mr. Paul considered and made a calculation. “In the main guard about two hundred. That’s the infantry. Then the field militia, I don’t know how many. In Balttin-Dortum a squadron of hussars. Some gunners at the artillery ground in Balttin-Dikkeln.”

‘Why do they have field militia here?”

“This is a military camp, please. In connection with the munition factory.”

“Aha! And there’s only a guard just round this place?”

“Here there are only patrols, please. The chain is further away, behind the wood.”

“What chain?”

“The protective zone, please. No one is allowed to go there.”

“And if anyone wants to leave the place”

“Then he must obtain a permit from the camp commandant. Does the gentleman require anything more?”

“No, thank you.”

Like a satiated Eastern potentate, Prokop stretched himself out on the divan. Well, we shall see, he said to himself; so far things were not so bad. He wished to reflect on the matter but instead could only remember the way in which Carson had jumped about in front of him. Supposing he hadn’t