She wore the costume of a peasant of the canton bordering the wire; and she looked like that type of German-Swiss--handsome, sensual, bad-tempered, but not stupid.
"Well," he said in French, "you can explain yourself now, mademoiselle. Allons! Who and what are you? Dites!"
"What are you? A robber?" she gasped, jerking her arm free.
"If you thought so why didn't you call for help?"
"And be shot at? Do you take me for a fool? What are you--a Douanier then? A smuggler?"
"You answer ME!" he retorted. "What were you doing--crossing the wire at night?"
"Can't a girl keep a rendezvous without the custom-agents treating her so barbarously?" she panted, one hand flat on her tumultuous bosom.
"Oh, that was it, was it?"
"I do not deny it."
"Who is your lover--on the French side?"
"And if he happens to be an Alpinist?"--she shrugged, still breathing fast and irregularly, picking up the torn edge of her wool skirt and fingering the rent.
"Really. An Alpinist? A rendezvous in Delle, eh? And who were your two friends?"
"Boys from my canton."
"Is that so?"
Her breast still rose and fell unevenly; she turned her pretty, insolent eyes on him: "After all, what business is it of yours? Who are you, anyway? If you are French you can do nothing. If you are Swiss take me to the nearest poste."
"Who were those two men?" repeated Recklow.
"Ask them."
"No; I think I'll take you back to France."
The girl became silent at that but her attitude defied him. Even when he snapped an automatic handcuff over one wrist she smiled incredulously.
But the jeering expression on her dark, handsome features altered when they approached the Swiss wire. And when Recklow produced a pair of heavy wire-cutters all defiance died out in her face.
"Make a sound and I'll simply shoot you," he whispered.
"W-what is it you want with me?" she asked in a ghost of a voice.
"The truth."
"I told it."
"You did not. You are German."
"Believe what you like, but I am on neutral territory. Let me go."
"You ARE German! For God's sake admit it or we'll be too late!"
"What?"
"Admit it, I say. Do you want those two Americans to get away?"
"What--Americans?" stammered the girl. "I d-don't know what you mean--"
Recklow laughed under his breath, unlocked the handcuffs.
"Echt Deutsch," he whispered in German--"and ZERO-TWO-SIX. A good hint to you!"
"Waidman's Heil!" said the girl faintly. "O God! what a fright you gave me.... There's a man at Delle--we were warned--Seventy is his number, Recklow--a devil Yankee--"
"A swine! a fathead, sleeping all day in his garden, too drunk to open despatches!" sneered Recklow.