Single-minded person that he was, Dalroy at once focused his thoughts on the immediate problem. A small stream leaped down from the wood to the Meuse. Short of a main road bridge its turbulent course was checked by a mill-dam, and there was some reason to believe that the mill might be Joos's. The building seemed a prosperous place, with its two giant wheels on different levels, its ample granaries, and a substantial house. It was intact, too, and somewhat apart from the actual line of battle. At any rate, though the transition was the time-honoured one from the frying-pan to the fire, in that direction lay food, shelter, and human beings other than Germans, so he determined to go there without further delay. His main purpose now was to lodge his companion with some Belgian family until the tide of war had swept far to the west. For himself, he meant to cross the enemy's lines by hook or by crook, or lose his life in the attempt. "One more effort," he said, smiling confidently into Irene's somewhat pallid face. "Your uncle lives below there, I fancy. We're about to claim his hospitality." He hid the rifle, bayonet, and cartridges in a thicket. The milk-pail he took with him. If they met a German patrol the pail might serve as an excuse for being out and about, whereas the weapons would have been a sure passport to the next world. It was broad daylight when they entered the miller's yard. They saw the name Henri Joos on a cart. "Good egg!" cried Dalroy confidently. "I'm glad Joos spells his Christian name in the French way. It shows that he means well, anyhow!" CHAPTER IV THE TRAGEDY OF VISÉ Early as was the hour, a door leading to the dwelling-house stood open. The sound of feet on the cobbled pavement of the mill-yard brought a squat, beetle-browed old man to the threshold. He surveyed the strangers with a curiously haphazard yet piercing underlook. His black eyes held a glint of red. Here was one in a subdued torment of rage, or, it might be, of ill-controlled panic. "What now?" he grunted, using the local argot. Dalroy, quick to read character, decided that this crabbed old Walloon was to be won at once or not at all. "Shall I speak French or German?" he said quietly. The other spat. "_Qu'est-ce que tu veux que je te dise, moi?_" he demanded. Now, the plain English of that question is, "What do you wish me to say?" But the expectoration, no less than the biting tone, lent the words a far deeper meaning. Dalroy was reassured. "Are you Monsieur Henri Joos?" he said. "Ay." "This lady and I have come from Aix-la-Chapelle with your man, Maertz." "Oh, he's alive, then?" "I hope so. But may we not enter?" Joos eyed the engine-cleaner's official cap and soiled clothes, and his suspicious gaze travelled to Dalroy's well-fitting and expensive boots. "Who the deuce are you?" he snapped. "I'll tell you if you let us come in." "I can't hinder you. It is an order, all doors must be left open."