He hid the rifle, bayonet, and cartridges in a thicket. The milk-pail he took with him. If they met a German patrol the pail might serve as an excuse for being out and about, whereas the weapons would have been a sure passport to the next world.
It was broad daylight when they entered the miller’s yard. They saw the name Henri Joos on a cart.
“Good egg!” cried Dalroy confidently. “I’m glad Joos spells his Christian name in the French way. It shows that he means well, anyhow!”
CHAPTER IV
THE TRAGEDY OF VISÉ
Early as was the hour, a door leading to the dwelling-house stood open. The sound of feet on the cobbled pavement of the mill-yard brought a squat, beetle-browed old man to the threshold. He surveyed the strangers with a curiously haphazard yet piercing underlook. His black eyes held a glint of red. Here was one in a subdued torment of rage, or, it might be, of ill-controlled panic.
“What now?” he grunted, using the local argot.
Dalroy, quick to read character, decided that this crabbed old Walloon was to be won at once or not at all.