“He's on my track.”
“Alone?”
“I saw no one else.”
Hindwood's forehead wrinkled as he reckoned the cost. “If he comes alone, we can deal with him.”
“You mean—?” She did not finish her sentence.
He smiled sternly, thinking how far he had drifted from his moorings. “Scarcely. What made you ask?”
“He's my husband.” Her answer was enigmatic.
They held their breath. She was clinging to him. There had been no sound, nothing that could have warned them. Pushing her from him, he stole toward the window. Not fifty yards away, rigid like a hound at fault, stood the Major. Slowly, scarcely turning his head, he was running his eye along the double line of hutments. There was nothing in his expression that would tell what he had found. As though he sensed that he was watched, he started forward at a rambling pace. He tried no doors. He peered through no panes. His bearing was that of a mildly interested tourist who had stumbled on the camp by accident. He passed out of sight inoffensively, idly slashing at the grass.
It was some time before either of them dared to whisper. Then Hindwood straightened himself and drew back.
“He's gone.”