that "there were far too many
Germans in Belgium." Schwartz and his like were to be found in every
walk of life, from the merchant princes who controlled the trade of
Antwerp to the youngest brush-haired waiter in the Cafe de la Regence at
Brussels.

Dalroy was aware of a grim appropriateness in the fate of Schwartz. The
German automatic pistols carried soft-nosed bullets, so the arch-traitor
who murdered the Vise doctor had himself suffered from one of the many
infernal devices brought by _Kultur_ to the battlefields of Flanders.
But the punishment of Schwartz could not undo the mischief the wretch
had caused. The men he led knew the nature and purpose of their errand.
They would report to the first officer met on the main road, who might
be expected to detail instantly a sufficient force for the task of
clearing the wood. In fact, the operation had become a military
necessity. There was no telling to what extent the locality was held by
Belgian troops, as, of course, the runaway warriors would magnify the
firing a hundredfold, and no soldier worth his salt would permit the
uninterrupted march of an army corps along a road flanked by such a
danger-point. In effect, Dalroy conceived a hundred reasons why he might
anticipate a sudden and violent end, but not one offering a fair
prospect of escape. At any rate, he refused to be guilty of the folly of
plunging into an unknown jungle of brambles, rocks, and trees, and
elected to go back by the path to the foot of the quarry, whence he
might, with plenty of luck, break through on a flank before the Germans
spread their net too wide.

He had actually crossed some part of the clearing in front of the hut
when his gorge rose at the thought that, win or lose in this game of
life and death, he might never again see Irene Beresford. The notion was
intolerable. He halted, and turned toward the black wall of the wood.
Mad though it was to risk revealing his whereabouts, since he had no
means of knowing how close the nearest pursuers might be, he shouted
loudly, "Miss Beresford!"

And a sweet voice replied, "Oh, Mr. Dalroy, they told me you were dead,
but I refused to believe them!"

Dalroy had staked everything on that last despairing call, little
dreaming that it would be answered. It was as though an angel had spoken
from out of the black portals of death. He was so taken aback, his
spirit was so shaken, that for a few seconds he was tongue-tied, and
Irene appeared in the mo