“No.”
“But he’ll think I’ve gone mad, or bolted, or——”
“Come.” He was quite a master of monosyllabic dialogue.
“I’ll be hanged if I will,” I flung back at him angrily.
But as he pulled out a revolver and made me understand—without even a monosyllable this time—that I should be shot if I didn’t, I decided not to be obstinate.
As we left the door of the house a vehicle drove up and I was bundled into it, none too gently.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Silence.” The word was so fiercely uttered that I saw no use in arguing the point. I sat still therefore wondering to which prison we were going and what steps I should be allowed to take to get the matter explained. The simplest course would be to send a line to Volheno; but the arrest was really an outrage, and in the interests of other Englishmen in the city, a row ought to be made about it by the British authorities.
I was hesitating to which of the two quarters I would send, when the carriage stopped before a large private house, the door of which was instantly opened and I was hurried inside. Obviously I was expected.
The three men took me up a broad flight of stairs and halted on the landing. The man of monosyllables went into a room at the back of the house, taking with him some papers which I concluded he had brought from my rooms; and after perhaps a couple of minutes he reopened the door and signed to us to enter.