“You mean that he may attack me?”
“Well—yes. It's quite possible. Monsieur Pour-mont would take you in now. I'm sure. In the morning you'll be back in your trenches. That will give us time to...”
His voice died out. His gaze anxiously followed Brachey's movements. The man had buttoned on his collar, and was knotting his tie before the little square mirror that hung on the rear tent-pole. Next he brushed his hair. Then he got into his coat. And then he discovered that he was in his stocking feet. That bit of absent-mindedness was the only sign he gave of excitement.
“If I might suggest that you hurry a little,” thus Boatwright... “it's possible that he's on his way here now.”
“Who?” asked Brachey coolly, raising his head. “Oh—you mean Doane.”
“Yes. I really think—”
Brachey waved him to be still. He moved to the tent opening, peered out into the night, then turned and looked straight at his caller, slightly pursing his lips.
“Where is Mr. Doane?” he asked.
“He was in my room. But you're not—you don't mean—”
“I'm going to see him, of course.”