“I’m still skeptical about Cusick, Pink.  Do you think he’s straight?”

“One of the best men we’ve got,” Pink replied, confidently.  “He’s put us on to several things.”

“He’s foreign born, isn’t he?”

“That’s his value.  They don’t suspect him for a minute.”

“But—­what does he get out of it?”

“Good citizen,” said Pink, with promptness.  “You’ve got to remember, Cameron, that a lot of these fellows are better Americans than we are.  They’re like religious converts, stronger than the ones born in the fold.  They’re Americans because they want to be.  Anyhow, you ought to be strong for him, Cameron.  He said to tell you, but no one else.”

“I’ll tell you how strong I am for him later,” Willy Cameron said, grimly.  “Just at this minute I’m waiting to be shown.”

They advanced with infinite caution, for the evening was still light.  Going slowly, it was well after eight and fairly dark before they came within sight of the farm buildings in the valley below.  Long unpainted, they were barely discernable in the shadows of the hills.  The land around had been carefully cleared, and both men were dismayed at the difficulty of access without being seen.

“Doesn’t look very good, does it?” Pink observed.  “I will say this, for seclusion and keeping away unwanted visitors, it has it all over any dug-out I ever saw in France.”

“Listen!” Willy Cameron said, tensely.

They stood on the alert, but only the evening sounds of country and forest rewarded them.

“What was it?” Pink inquired, after perhaps two minutes of waiting.

“Plain scare on my part, probably.  I don’t so much mind this little excursion, Pink, as I hate the idea that a certain gentleman named Cusick may have a chance to come to our funerals and laugh himself to death.”

When real darkness had fallen, they had reached the lower fringe of the woods.  Pink had the fault of the city dweller, however, of being unable to step lightly in the dark, and their progress had been less silent than it should have been.  In spite of his handicap, Willy Cameron made his way with the instinctive knowledge of the country bred boy, treading like a cat.

“Pretty poor,” Pink said in a discouraged whisper, after a twig had burst under his foot with a report like the shot of a pistol.  “You travel like a spook, while I—­”

“Listen, Pink.  I’m going in alone to look around.  Stop muttering and listen to me.  It’s poor strategy not to have a reserve somewhere, isn’t it?”

“I’m a poor prune at the best,” Pink said stubbornly, “but I am not going to let you go into that place alone.  You can rave all you want.”

“Very well.  Then we’ll both stay here.  You are about as quiet as a horse going through a corn patch.”

After some moments Pink spoke again.

“If you insist on stealing the whole show,” he said, sulkily, “what am I to do?  Run to town for help, if you need it?”