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seat at the other end of the compartment. No one said a word. The old lady was looking out the window.
    For perhaps half an hour the train jolted along on a most uneven track. Jim leaned against the window of the corridor, but Marcel was not in sight. At last he appeared, smiling, hot and perspiring. Instantly Roy understood. The French police knew Marcel would be picked up by the German control that followed them along the corridor of the train, so they had hidden him somewhere until the inspection was finished.

CHAPTER 7
    T HE STATION AT D AX was larger than the ones they had passed through during the day. The crowd was larger, too. Wedged securely in the mob, the three men trying to keep together in the event of trouble, they worked down the platform to where the huge exit sign hung overhead. There they anticipated an inspection of their identity cards. When they were near the gate, with no way of escape, they realized the German control party at the barrier was also searching everyone’s baggage.
    Since all radios were forbidden, and the one carried by Marcel was evidently of foreign make, discovery seemed inevitable.
    There was no time to think. Already they were close to the exit gate, handing over their tickets to the French railway guard, and their false identity cards to the stolid German non-com with the rifle on his shoulder. Roy was ready to bolt through the mob and try to run for it, although he knew perfectly well that even should he succeed in getting outside the station, he would be picked up in town immediately.
    They looked at each other. Next to Roy was Marcel, with the betraying suitcase in his hand. In front of him tottered a little girl of four or five, lugging a heavy bundle, a youngster thin-legged and weak like all the kids they had seen in France. She was trying to get through the gate. By Marcel’s other elbow was a tall German soldier, evidently returning from leave at home. Suddenly Marcel thrust the suitcase at him, said a few words in French, picked up the little girl and her bundle, and went through the gate holding out his identity card. The official tore open the bundle which contained old clothes, and nodded for them to go on. Meanwhile, the soldier carrying the valise passed by without an inspection. Marcel put down the child and took the valise.
    “Merci, mon vieux,” he said. The soldier smiled and moved along.
    But they were not safe yet. Just beyond stood a French policeman, a rifle slung over his back. He had observed the maneuver, and stepped forward. Taking Marcel roughly by the arm, he pointed to the suitcase, plainly asking what was in it. Once more Roy was desperate, getting set to run, to push through the mob into the street and safety outside. But again nothing happened. On tiptoe, Marcel reached up and whispered something to the tough gendarme. The man turned away. They were in the street.
    Roy wiped his forehead. Gosh! And those Intelligence Officers used to claim this escape business was a setup if you did what you were told!
    “What did you say to him, Marcel?”
    The little Frenchman glanced round to be sure no one heard. “I take beeg chance. I say in valise is American radio for Resistance. O.K.!”
    The station square was jammed with antique carriages drawn by bony horses, a few German jeeps, and one or two French automobiles with queer wood-burning engines attached at the back. Roy paused to stare at these contraptions, but Jim poked him sharply. They ducked down a side street into the poorer quarters of the town, past several blocks of flats. Then Marcel stopped at a small, unpretentious house, like dozens of others in the neighborhood. He looked around carefully, then knocked hastily three times. There was a long moment or two of waiting. Finally the door opened and they stepped inside.
    They were looking into a dim hallway. At the far end of it was a sub-machine gun. Behind the gun was a German soldier.
    They stood there, too stunned to move.
    The German