"He does look right," whispered McKay. "No Boche cradles a rifle in the hollow of his left arm so naturally. It is HABIT, because he does it in spite of a crippled left hand."
She nodded again.
"Also," whispered McKay, "everything else about him is convincing—the pack, tump-line, moccasins, Winchester: and his manner of moving…. I know deer-stalkers in Scotland and in the Alps. I know the hunters of ibex and chamois, of roe-deer and red stag, of auerhahn and eagle. This man is DIFFERENT. He moves and behaves like our own woodsmen—like one of our own hunters."
She asked with dumb lips touching his ear: "Shall we chance it?"
"No. It must be a certainty."
"Yes. We must not offer him a chance."
"Not a ghost of a chance to do us harm," nodded McKay. "Listen attentively, Eve; when he moves on, rise when I do; take the pigeon and the little sack because I want both hands free. Do you understand, dear?"
"Yes."
"Because I shall have to kill him if the faintest hint of suspicion arises in my mind. It's got to be that way, Eve."
"Yes, I know."