"Good! But what has it to do with me?" asked McKay.
"Well, I'll be telling you. I took the Boche to London and I've come all the way back to tell you this, Seventy-six; the Huns are on to you and what you're up to. That Boche laird called himself Stanley Brown, but his name is—or was—Schwartz. His gillie proved to be a Swede."
"Have they been executed?"
"You bet. Tower style! We got another chum of theirs, too, who set up a holler like he saw a pan of hogwash. We're holding him. And what we've learned is this: The Huns made a special set at your transport in order to get YOU and Seventy-seven!
"Now they know you are here and their orders are to get you before you reach France. The hog that hollered put us next. He's a Milwaukee Boche; name Zimmerman. He's so scared that he tells all he knows and a lot that he doesn't. That's the trouble with a Milwaukee Boche. Anyway, London sent me back to find you and warn you. Keep your eye skinned. And when you're ready for France wire Edinburgh. You know where. There'll be a car and an escort for you and Seventy-seven."
McKay laughed: "You know," he said, "there's no chance of trouble here. Glenark is too small a village—"
"Didn't I land a brace of Boches at Banff?"
"That's true. Well, anyway, I'll be off, I expect, in a day or so."
He rose; "and now I'll show you a bed—"
"No; I've a dog-cart tied out yonder and a chaser lying at Glenark.
By Godfrey, I'm not finished with these Boche-jocks yet!"
"You're going?"