The dark interior of the shed was aflicker with white wings.
"Pigeons!" repeated van Heerden, closing the door, "and every one knows his way back to Germany. It has been a labour of love collecting them. And they are all British," he said with a laugh. "There I will give the British credit, they know more about pigeons than we Germans and have used them more in the war."
"But suppose your pigeon is shot down or falls by the way?" she asked, as they walked slowly back to the house.
"I shall send fifty," replied van Heerden calmly; "each will carry the same message and some at least will get home."
Back in the dining-room he cleared the remains of the supper from the table and went out of the room for a few minutes, returning with a small pad of paper, and she saw from the delicacy with which he handed each sheet that it was of the thinnest texture. Between each page he placed a carbon and began to write, printing the characters. There was only one word on each tiny sheet. When this was written he detached the leaves, putting them aside and using his watch as a paper-weight, and wrote another batch.
She watched him, fascinated, until he showed signs that he had completed his task. Then she lifted the little valise which she had at her side, put it on her knees, opened it and took out a book. It must have been instinct which made him raise his eyes to her.
"What have you got there?" he asked sharply.
"Oh, a book," she said, with an attempt at carelessness.
"But why have you got it out? You are not reading."
He leant over and snatched it from her and looked at the title.