"By the way, can you tell me--if it's not a professional secret, of course--can you tell me who that man Dourlowski is exactly?" "Six months ago," replied Jorance, "I should not have been able to answer your question. But now ..." "But now?..." "He is no longer in our service." "Do you think he has gone over to the other side?" "I expect so, but I haven't the least proof of it. In any case, there's not much to be said in the fellow's favour. Why do you ask? Have you anything to do with him?" "No, no," said Morestal, remaining thoughtful. They went on in silence. The wind, which blew more strongly on the ridge, played among the trees. The pine-needles crackled under the soles of their boots. The moon had disappeared, but the sky was white with light. "The Pierre-Branlante.... The Cheminee-des-Fees," said Morestal, pointing to the vaguely-seen shapes of two huge boulders known by those names of the Rocking Stone and the Fairies' Chimney. They walked for another moment: "Eh? What is it?" said Jorance, feeling his companion catch him by the arm. "Did you hear?" "No." "Listen!" "Well, what?" "Didn't you hear a sort of a hoot?" "Yes, the hoot of an owl." "Are you sure? It doesn't sound natural to me." "What do you say it is, then? A signal?" "I'm certain of it." Jorance reflected: "After all, it's quite possible ... some smuggler perhaps.... But it's a bad moment to have chosen." "Why?" "Well, now that the German post has been cut down, it's likely that all this part of the frontier is being more closely watched than usual." "Yes, of course," said Morestal. "Still, that owl's hoot ..." There was a short slope and then they emerged upon a higher upland, surrounded by enormous fir-trees, which formed a sort of rampart. This was the Butte-aux-Loups. The road cut it in two; and the posts of each country stood facing each other. Jorance noticed that the German post had been put up again, but in a makeshift fashion, with the aid of a number of large stones which kept it in position. "A gust of wind and down it comes again," he said, shaking it. "I say, mind what you're about!" said Morestal, with a chuckle. "Don't you see yourself toppling it over and having the police down upon you?... You'd better make a strategic movement to the rear, my friend!..." But he had not finished speaking when another cry reached his ears. "Ah, this time," said Morestal, "you'll admit...." "Yes ... yes ..." Jorance agreed. "An owl gives a duller, slower hoot.... It really is like a signal, a hundred yards or so ahead of us.... Smugglers, of course, French or German." "Suppose we turned back?" said Morestal. "Aren't you afraid of being mixed up in an affair?..." "Why? It's the custom-house people's business; it doesn't concern you and me. They can settle it among themselves...." They listened for a moment and then went on, thoughtfully, with watchful ears.