There were no more shots. Renoux stepped leisurely into the tonneau.
“Well, what the devil do you gentlemen make of this?” Barres heard him say in his cool, humorous voice. “It really looks as though the boches were getting nervous.”
The car started. Barres could see Renoux and another 348 man sitting with pistols levelled as the car glided along the fringe of woods. But there were no more shots on either side, and, after the car had disappeared, Barres turned and retraced his way.
Then, as he entered his own gate by the side wicket, and turned to lock it with his own key, an electric torch flashed in his face, blinding him.
“Let him have it!” muttered somebody behind the dazzling light.
“That’s not one of them!” said another voice distinctly. “Look out what you’re doing! Douse your glim!”
Instantly the fierce glare faded to a cinder. Barres heard running feet on the macadam, the crash of shrubbery opposite. But he could see nobody; and presently the footsteps in the woods were no longer audible.
There seemed to be nothing for him to do in the matter. He lingered by the wicket for a while, peering into the night, listening. He saw nothing; heard nothing more that night.