"And you lied to me
yesterday! No troops were sent to Croydon at all!"
"Well, you hadn't any business to ask us!" said Dick, pluckily. "If you
hadn't asked us any questions, we'd have told you no lies."
"I think perhaps you know too much," said the spy, nodding his head. "You
had better come with me. We will look after you in this house that
interests you so greatly."
He made a movement forward. His hand dropped on Dick's shoulder. But as it
did so Harry's feet left the ground. He aimed for the spy's legs, just
below the knee, and brought him to the ground with a beautiful diving
tackle--the sort he had learned in his American football days. It was the
one attack of all others that the spy did not anticipate, if, indeed, he
looked for any resistance at all. He wasn't a football player, so he didn't
know how to let his body give and strike the ground limply. The result was
that his head struck a piece of hard ground with abnormal violence, and he
lay prone and very still.
"Oh, that was ripping, Harry!" cried Dick. "But do you think you've killed
him?"
"Killed him? No!" said Harry, with a laugh. "He's tougher than that, Dick!"
But he looked ruefully at the spy.
"I wish I knew what to do with him," he said. "He'll come to in a little
while. But--"
"We can get away while he's still out," said Dick, quickly.
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