But, to Recklow’s grim surprise, and before he could emerge from the bushes, no sooner were the two sentries engaged in lively gossip than three dark figures crept out on hands and knees from the long grass at the very base of the Swiss wire and were up the ladder which McKay had left and over it like monkeys before he could have prevented it even if he had dared.

Each in turn, reaching the top of the wire, set foot on the wooden post and leaped off into darkness—­each except the last, who remained poised, then twisted around as though caught by the top barbed strand.

And Recklow saw the figure was a woman’s, and that her short skirt had become entangled in the wire.

In an instant he was after her; she saw him, strove desperately to free herself, tore her skirt loose, and jumped.  And Recklow jumped after her, landing among the wet ferns on his feet and seizing her as she tried to rise from where she had fallen.

She struggled and fought him in silence, but his iron clutch was on her and he dragged her by main force through the woods parallel with the Swiss wire until, breathless, powerless, impotent, she gave up the battle and suffered him to force her along until they were far beyond earshot of the patrol and of her two companions as well, in case they should return to the wire to look for her.

For ten minutes, holding her by the arm, he pushed forward up the wooded slope.  Then, when it was safe to do so, he halted, jerked her around to face him, and flashed his pocket torch.  And he saw a handsome, perspiring, sullen girl, staring at him out of dark eyes dilated by terror or by fury—­he was not quite sure which.

She wore the costume of a peasant of the canton bordering the wire; and she looked like that type of German-Swiss—­handsome, sensual, bad-tempered, but not stupid.

“Well,” he said in French, “you can explain yourself now, mademoiselle.  Allons!  Who and what are you?  Dites!”

“What are you?  A robber?” she gasped, jerking her arm free.

“If you thought so why didn’t you call for help?”

“And be shot at?  Do you take me for a fool?  What are you—­a Douanier then?  A smuggler?”

“You answer me!” he retorted.  “What were you doing—­crossing the wire at night?”

“Can’t a girl keep a rendezvous without the custom-agents treating her so barbarously?” she panted, one hand flat on her tumultuous bosom.

“Oh, that was it, was it?”

“I do not deny it.”

“Who is your lover—­on the French side?”

“And if he happens to be an Alpinist?”—­she shrugged, still breathing fast and irregularly, picking up the torn edge of her wool skirt and fingering the rent.

“Really.  An Alpinist?  A rendezvous in Delle, eh?  And who were your two friends?”

“Boys from my canton.”

“Is that so?”

Her breast still rose and fell unevenly; she turned her pretty, insolent eyes on him: