I was placed in front of him, and two or three of the soldiers took up positions by Gatrina. As the major held my fate and perhaps my life in his hands, I scrutinised him closely. He was a man between forty and fifty years of age; his face strong but not harsh; his manner peremptory as of one accustomed to exact prompt obedience; but he gave me the impression that he would deal justly even if sternly. A vastly different type of man from the red-headed, passionate beast whose place he had taken. And I was heartily thankful for the exchange.
He glanced sharply at me and with a slight start turned to some notes he had made of what the others had told him. I guessed that he had some recollection of my features and was probably looking for my name.
“You are Major Kireef, I think?” I said, while his eyes were still on the papers. He looked up quickly and frowned.
“You are not to question me,” he rapped out, very curtly. Then: “I see no mention of your name here. What is it?”
“The man who has just left was going to have me shot without troubling to find out,” I replied, getting that fact out as soon as I could.
“Be good enough to remember you are a prisoner, and that you will not help your case by either evading my questions or attempting to bring charges against others. Now, your name?”
“Chase F. Bergwyn, a citizen of the United States.”
He dropped his pen in surprise and half started to his feet.
“Mr. Bergwyn?” he exclaimed. “It is not possible.”
“If you can send a message to Colonel Petrosch he will confirm what I say, major. I met you at the Reception at the Palace just after my arrival in Belgrade. You may remember me.”