“It—­it is a long way across Isla Water,” she stammered.  “I’m very tired—­Kay!”

“You below there!” shouted McKay.  “Are there constables among you?”

“Aye, sir!” came the loud response amid the roar of running engines.

“Then there’ll be whiskey and blankets, I’m thinkin’!” cried McKay.

“Aye, blankets for the dead if there be any!”

“Kick ’em into the whinns and bring what ye bring for the living!” said McKay in a loud, joyous voice.  “And if you’ve petrol and speed take the Banff road and be on your way, for the Boche are crawling to cover, and it’s fine running the night!  Get on there, ye Glenark beagles!  And leave a car behind for me and mine!”

A constable, shining his lantern, came clumping up the Pulpit.  McKay snatched the heavy blankets and with one mighty movement swept the girl into them.

Half-conscious she coughed and gasped at the whiskey, then lay very still as McKay lifted her in his arms and strode out under the paling stars of Isla.

CHAPTER VI

MOUNT TERRIBLE

Toward the last of May a handsome young man wearing a smile and the uniform of an American Intelligence Officer arrived at Delle, a French village on the Franco-Swiss frontier.

His credentials being satisfactory he was directed by the Major of Alpinists commanding the place to a small stucco house on the main street.

Here he inquired for a gentleman named Number Seventy.  The gentleman’s other name was John Recklow, and he received the Intelligence Officer, locked the door, and seated himself behind his desk with his back to the sunlit window, and one drawer of his desk partly open.

Credentials being requested, and the request complied with accompanied by a dazzling smile, there ensued a silent interval of some length during which the young man wearing the uniform of an American Intelligence Officer was not at all certain whether Recklow was examining him or the papers of identification.

After a while Recklow nodded:  “You came through from Toul, Captain?”

“From Toul, sir,” with the quick smile revealing dazzling teeth.

“Matters progress?”

“It is quiet there.”

“So I understand,” nodded Recklow.  “There’s blood on your uniform.”

“A scratch—­a spill from my motor-cycle.”

Recklow eyed the cut on the officer’s handsome face.  One of the young officer’s hands was bandaged, too.

“You’ve been in action, Captain.”

“No, sir.”

“You wear German shoes.”

The officer’s brilliant smile wrinkled his good-looking features:  “There was some little loot:  I’m wearing my share.”

Recklow nodded and let his cold eyes rest on the identification papers.

Then, slowly, and without a word, he passed them back over the desk.

The Intelligence Officer stuffed them carelessly into his side-pocket.