From somewhere behind him a Belgian battery gave
tongue, but not for long. And then came silence.
Henri moved then. He crept nearer the mill and nearer. And at last he
stood inside and took his bearings. A lamp burned in the kitchen,
showing a dirty brick floor and a littered table--such a house as men
keep, untidy and unhomelike. A burnt kettle stood on the hearth, and
leaning against the wall was the bag of grain Maurice had carried from
the crossroads.
"A mill which grinds without grain," Henri said to himself.
There was a boxed-in staircase to the upper floor, and there, with the
door slightly ajar, he stationed himself, pistol in hand. Now and then
he glanced uneasily at the clock. Sara Lee must not be back before he
had taken his prisoners to the little house and turned them over to
those who waited there.
There were footsteps outside, and Henri drew the door a little closer.
But he was dismayed to find it Marie. She crept in, a white and broken
thing, and looked about her.
"Maurice!" she called.
She sat down for a moment, and then, seeing the disorder about her, set
to work to clear the table. It was then that Henri lowered his pistol
and opened the door.
Pages:
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178