“I hear that you and Seventy-seven have entered the Service; that you are detailed to Switzerland and for a certain object unknown to myself; that your transport was torpedoed a week ago off the Head of Strathlone, that you wired London from this house of yours called Isla, and that you and Seventy-seven went to London last week to replenish the wardrobe you had lost.”

“Is that all you heard?”

“It is.”

“Well, what more do you wish to hear?”

“I want to know whether anything has happened to worry you.  And I’ll tell you why.  There was a Hun caught near Banff!  Can you beat it?  The beggar wore kilts!—­and the McKay tartan—­and, by jinks, if his gillie wasn’t rigged in shepherd’s plaid!—­and him with his Yankee passport and his gillie with a bag of ready-made rods.  Yellow trout, is it?  Sea-trout, is it!  Ho, me bucko, says I when I lamped what he did with his first trout o’ the burn this side the park—­by Godfrey! thinks I to myself, you’re no white man at all!—­you’re Boche.  And it was so, McKay.”

“Seventy-six,” corrected McKay gently.

“That’s better.  It should become a habit.”

“Excuse me, Seventy-six; I’m Scotch-Irish way back.  You’re straight Scotch—­somewhere back.  We Yankees don’t use rods and flies and net and gaff as these Scotch people use ’em.  But we’re white, Seventy-six, and we use ’em right in our own fashion.”  He moistened his throat, shoved aside the glass: 

“But this kilted Boche!  Oh, la-la!  What he did with his rod and flies and his fish and himself!  And his gillie!  Sure you’re not white at all, thinks I. And at that I go after them.”

“You got them?”

“Certainly—­at the inn—­gobbling a trout, blaue gesotten—­having gone into the kitchen to show a decent Scotch lassie how to concoct the Hunnish dish.  I nailed them then and there—­took the chance that the swine weren’t right.  And won out.”

“Good!  But what has it to do with me?” asked McKay.

“Well, I’ll be telling you.  I took the Boche to London and I’ve come all the way back to tell you this, Seventy-six; the Huns are on to you and what you’re up to.  That Boche laird called himself Stanley Brown, but his name is—­or was—­Schwartz.  His gillie proved to be a Swede.”

“Have they been executed?”

“You bet.  Tower style!  We got another chum of theirs, too, who set up a holler like he saw a pan of hogwash.  We’re holding him.  And what we’ve learned is this:  The Huns made a special set at your transport in order to get you and Seventy-seven!

“Now they know you are here and their orders are to get you before you reach France.  The hog that hollered put us next.  He’s a Milwaukee Boche; name Zimmerman.  He’s so scared that he tells all he knows and a lot that he doesn’t.  That’s the trouble with a Milwaukee Boche.  Anyway, London sent me back to find you and warn you.  Keep your eye skinned.  And when you’re ready for France wire Edinburgh.  You know where.  There’ll be a car and an escort for you and Seventy-seven.”