"Well," he said in French, "you can explain yourself now, mademoiselle. Allons! Who and what are you? Dites!"
"What are you? A robber?" she gasped, jerking her arm free.
"If you thought so why didn't you call for help?"
"And be shot at? Do you take me for a fool? What are you—a Douanier then? A smuggler?"
"You answer ME!" he retorted. "What were you doing—crossing the wire at night?"
"Can't a girl keep a rendezvous without the custom-agents treating her so barbarously?" she panted, one hand flat on her tumultuous bosom.
"Oh, that was it, was it?"
"I do not deny it."
"Who is your lover—on the French side?"
"And if he happens to be an Alpinist?"—she shrugged, still breathing fast and irregularly, picking up the torn edge of her wool skirt and fingering the rent.