He paused, looked warily around, and emitted a low chuckle.
“Six months ago,” he continued, “when I was captured by your side and sentenced to be shot you rescued me, as I have you. You showed me our lines and gave me two minutes to get away. After that two minutes you were to fire, and you——”
He stopped, wheeled like a flash, but too late. A shot rang out, and another.
The two men stiffened, leaned toward each other, gasped, and dropped to the ground.
Around the corner of the hedge stepped the sentry, a smoking automatic in his hand.
“Huh!” he growled, stirring the prostrate figures with his foot. “Relatives have no business on opposite sides, anyway.”
TWO LETTERS, A TELEGRAM, AND A FINALE
By H. S. Haskins
“New York, September 10.
“Dearest Marian: