"How do we know that the traces of a trail marked by flattened leaves might not be his trail? Once, on that little sheet of sand left by rain in the torrent's wake, you found the imprint of a hobnailed shoe such as the Hun hunters wear," she reminded him. "And there we first saw the flattened trail of last year's leaves--if indeed it be truly a trail." "But, Eve dear, never have we discovered in any dead and flattened leaf the imprint of hobnails,--let alone the imprint of a human foot." "Suppose, whoever made that path, had pulled over his shoes a heavy woolen sock." He nodded. "I feel, somehow, that the Hun flattened out those leaves," she went on. "I am sure that had an American made the trail he would also have contrived to let us know--given us some indication of his identity." The girl's low voice suddenly failed and her hand clutched McKay's shoulder. They lay among the alpine roses like two stones, never stirring, the dappled sunlight falling over them as harmoniously and with no more and no less accent than it spotted tree-trunk and rock and moss around them. And, as they lay there, motionless, her head resting on his thigh, a man came out of the dimmer woods into the white sunshine that flooded the verge of the granite chasm. The man was very much weather-beaten; his tweeds were torn; he carried a rifle in his right hand. And his left was bound in bloody rags. But what instantly arrested McKay's attention was the pack strapped to his back and supported by a "tump-line." Never before had McKay seen such a pack carried in such a manner excepting only in American forests. The man stood facing the sun. His visage was burnt brick colour, a hue which seemed to accentuate the intense blue of his eyes and make his light-coloured hair seem almost white. He appeared to be a man of thirty, superbly built, with a light, springy step, despite his ragged and weary appearance. McKay's eyes were fastened desperately upon him, upon the strap of the Indian basket which crossed his sun-scorched forehead, upon his crystal-blue eyes of a hunter, upon his wounded left hand, upon the sinewy red fist that grasped a rifle, the make of which McKay should have known, and did know. For it was a Winchester 45-70--no chance for mistaking that typical American weapon. And McKay fell a-trembling in every limb. Presently the man cautiously turned, scanned his back trail with that slow-stirrng wariness of a woodsman who never moves abruptly or without good reason; then he went back a little way, making no sound on the forest floor. AND MCKAY SAW THAT HE WORE KNEE MOCCASINS. At the same time Evelyn Erith drew her little length noiselessly along his, and he felt her mouth warm against his ear: "Gray?" He nodded. "I think so, too. His left hand is injured. He wears American moccasins. But in God's name be careful, Kay. It may be a trap."