Rabig seemed to be trying to think up a reply, but nothing came to him and he simply stood still and glowered at them. He appeared to be speculating. What significance was there in these apparently careless questions? Why should they be asked at all? How much did these cordially hated acquaintances of his really know?
"I hear that one of the Germans was killed close to our lines last night," said Billy, shifting the attack.
"Right inside our lines," corrected Tom. "And here's the fellow who shot him," pointing to Frank.
"Frank has nerve," drawled Billy.
Rabig shot a glare of hate that was not lost by the onlookers, who kept their eyes steadily on his face.
"He nearly got another one, too," observed Bart. "And the funny thing about it was that he thought he knew the fellow's voice."
This was coming too near for Rabig to pretend that he did not know what they were driving at. He turned upon them in desperation.
"Look here," he snarled viciously. "What do you fellows mean? If you mean that I'm mixed up in this thing you lie. Now don't you speak to me again or I'll make you sorry for it."
Without waiting for a reply he hurried off, and the four Camport chums looked after him with speculation in their eyes until he was lost to view at a turn of the trench.
"He's guilty all right," declared Tom with conviction.