“No way that way, Yellow-hair.”

“Then?”

“I don’t—­know,” he said slowly.

“You mean that we ought to turn back.”

“Yes, we ought to.  The forest is narrowing very dangerously for us.  It runs to a point five miles farther east, overlooking impassable gulfs....  We should be in a cul-de-sac, Yellow-hair.”

“I know.”

He mused for a few moments, cool, clear-eyed, apparently quite undisturbed by their present peril and intent only on the mission which had brought them here, and how to execute it before their unseen trackers executed them.

“To turn now, and attempt to go back along this precipice, is to face every probability of meeting the men we have so far managed to avoid,” he said aloud in his pleasant voice, but as though presenting the facts to himself alone.

“Of course we shall account for some of the Huns; but that does not help us to win through....  Even an exchange of shots would no doubt be disastrous to our plans.  We must keep away from them....  Otherwise we could never hope to creep into the valley alive,...  Tell me, Yellow-hair, have you thought of anything new?”

The girl shook her head.

“No, Kay....  Except that chance of running across this new man of whom we never had heard before the stupid Boche advertised his presence in Les Errues.”

“Alexander Gray,” nodded McKay, taking from his pocket the paper which the Huns had nailed to the great pine, and unfolding it again.

The girl rested her chin on his shoulder to reread it—­an apparent familiarity which he did not misunderstand.  The dog that believes in you does it—­from perplexity sometimes, sometimes from loneliness.  Or, even when afraid—­not fearing with the baser emotion of the poltroon, but afraid with that brave fear which is a wisdom too, and which feeds and brightens the steady flame of courage.

“Alexander Gray,” repeated McKay.  “I never supposed that we would send another man in here—­at least not until something had been heard concerning our success or failure....  I had understood that such a policy was not advisable.  You know yourself, Yellow-hair, that the fewer people we have here the better the chance.  And it was so decided before we left New York....  And—­I wonder what occurred to alter our policy.”

“Perhaps the Boches have spread reports of our capture by Swiss authorities,” she said simply.

“That might be.  Yes, and the Hun newspapers might even have printed it.  I can see their scare-heads:  ’Gross Violation of Neutral Soil!

“’Switzerland invaded by the Yankees!  Their treacherous and impudent spies caught in the Alps!’—­that sort of thing.  Yes, it might be that... and yet—­”

“You think the Boche would not call attention to such an attempt even to trap others of our agents for the mere pleasure of murdering them?”

“That’s what I think, Eve.”