My question brought a new look, as the boy’s hands dropped from his face.
‘How came you,’ said I, ‘who ought to restrain these rascals, to be at their head? How came you, who ought to shun the society of men like Constantine Stefanopoulos and his tool Vlacho, to be working with them?’
I got no answer; only a frightened look appealed to me in the white glare of Hogvardt’s lantern. I came a step nearer and leant forward to ask my next question.
‘Who are you? What’s your name?’
‘My name—my name?’ stammered the prisoner. ‘I won’t tell my name.’
‘You’ll tell me nothing? You heard what I promised my friend?’
‘Yes, I heard,’ said the lad, with a face utterly pale, but with eyes that were again set in fierce determination.
I laughed a low laugh.
‘I believe you are fit for the trade after all,’ said I, and I looked at him with mingled distaste and admiration. But I had my last weapon still, my last question. I turned the lantern full on his face, I leant forward again, and I said in distinct slow tones—and the question sounded an absurd one to be spoken in such an impressive way:
‘Do you generally wear—clothes like that?’