"A rifle shot that was fired one night in a thicket when the Boche had us on the run," said Paul Cremarre.
Runnells swung sharply in his seat.
"Gawd!" he said hoarsely. "What d'you want to bring that up for to-night? I—damn it—I can see it out there in the black of the road now!"
The Frenchman remained silent.
Runnells spoke again after a moment.
"He's a rare 'un, all right, he is, is the captain," he said slowly; "but it wasn't him that did in Sir Harris Greaves. I'd take my oath on that. We was both in bed by twelve, as I told you, and he was still sleeping like a babe when I got up in the morning."
"And you, Runnells," inquired the Frenchman softly, "you too slept well?"
"You mean," said Runnells quickly, "that he slipped out again during the night?"
"Not at all!" said Paul Cremarre quietly. "How should I know? I mean nothing, except that Captain Francis Newcombe is a man like no other man in the world; that he is, as I once had the honour to remark—incomparable."
Runnells grunted over the wheel.