Breathlessly they waited, Archer nervously clutching Tom's arm. "Don't speak," Tom warned in the faintest whisper. Still they waited. But no other sound broke upon the deathlike solitude and darkness.... CHAPTER VII WHERE THERE'S A WILL---- "They're hunting for us," whispered Tom hoarsely. "It's good it was shut." "I'd ratherr have them catch us," shivered Archer, "than die in herre." "We haven't died yet," said Tom, "and they haven't caught us either. Don't lose your nerves. She'll come as soon as she can." For a few minutes they did not speak nor stir, only listened eagerly for any further sound. "What do you s'pose that shot was?" Archer whispered, after a few minutes more of keen suspense. "I don't know. A signal, maybe. They're searching this place for us, I guess. Don't talk." Archer took comfort from Tom's calmness, and for half an hour more they waited, silent and apprehensive. But nothing more happened, the solemn stillness of the countryside reigned without, and as the time passed their fear of pursuit and capture gave way to cold terror at the thought of being locked in this black, stifling vault to die. What had happened? What did that shot mean, and where was it? Why did Florette not come? Who had walked across the plank roof of that musty prison? The fact that they could only guess at the time increased their dread and made their dreadful predicament the harder to bear. Moreover, the air was stale and insufficient and their heads began to ache cruelly. "We can't stand it in here much longer," Tom confessed, after what seemed a long period of waiting. "Pretty soon one of us will be all in and then it'll be harder for the other. We've got to get out, no matter what." "Therre may be a Gerrman soldierr within ten feet of us now," Archer said. "They'rre probably around in this vineyarrd _somewherre_, anyway. If we tried to forrce it open they'd hearr us." "We couldn't force it, anyway," Tom said. "My head's pounding like a hammerr," said Archer after a few minutes more of silence. "Hold some of that damp straw to it.--How many matches did she give you?" "'Bout a dozen or so." "Wish I had a knife.--Have you got that piece of wire yet?" "Surre I have," said Archer, hauling from his pocket about five inches of barbed wire--the treasured memento of his escape from the Hun prison camp. "You laughed at me for always gettin' sooveneerrs; now you see---- What you want it for?" "Sh-h. How many barbs has it?" asked Tom in a cautious whisper. "Three." "Let's have it; give me a couple o' matches, too." Holding a lighted match under the place where he thought the iron padlock band must be, he scrutinized the under side of the door for any sign of it. "I thought maybe the ends of the screws would show through," he said. "What's the idea?" Archer asked. "Gee, but my head's poundin'."