She crept into his arms and nestled there silently with dry, staring eyes.

He stroked the golden-brown hair with an utter sense of helplessness.
"Nothing yet," he said finally, and there was a thin assumption of cheeriness in his tone.

"It may be another hour, but it will come-- it will come." "But if it doesn't, Gene ?" she queried insistently.

Always her mind went back to that possibility.
"We shall cross no bridges until we reach them," he replied.

"There is always a chance that the pigeons might have gone astray, for they have this single disadvantage against the incalculable advantage of offering no clew to any one as to where they go; and it is impossible to follow them.