Death lay depthless on either hand; ahead death blocked the trail in silence.
Out of the dark some unseen rifle might vomit death in his very face at any moment.
He continued to move forward. After a little while his ear caught a slight splash ahead. Suddenly a glare of light enveloped him.
"Is that you, Harry Beck?"
Instinct leg again while wits worked madly: "Harry Beck is two miles back on guard. Where is Sard?"
The silence became terrible. Once the glaring light in front moved, then become fixed. There was a light splashing. Instantly Smith realised that the man in front had set his torch in a tree-crotch and was now cowering somewhere behind a levelled weapon. His voice came presently:
"He! Drap-a that-a gun damn quick!"
Smith bent, leisurely, and laid his rifle on a mossy rock.
"Now! You there! Why you want Sard! Eh?"
"I'll tell Sard, not you," retorted Smith coolly. "You listen to me, whoever you are. I'm from Sard's office in New York. I'm Abrams. The police are on their way here to find Quintana."