“Ask mademoiselle,” said the cowardly cur.
“Mademoiselle, what say you?”
“That the man this—this carrion spy speaks of”—and she turned such a look on Drexel that he winced—“is Mr. Denver, an American. And if he were the Emperor, M. Vastic, and I knew where he was at this moment, you are the last man on earth I would tell.”
“I need no other evidence,” was the threatening reply. “I give you two minutes in which to tell me where to find him. If you refuse, you will suffer the consequences. You know the penalty of shielding one whom the brotherhood has sentenced. Say when the time is passed,” he ordered his comrade, and to enforce his threat he drew a revolver.
Helga gave no sign of flinching, but met his stern gaze with one to the full, as steady and resolute.
“You can murder me if you will. I do not know,” she said firmly. Not a change of colour, no quiver of the lip, nor tremor of a finger showed her courage to be shaken, or her purpose weakened by the ordeal.
But it was different with me and I made ready to take up my part in the scene. I calculated precisely what to do. The second man was near enough to the window for me to strike him down as I entered, and I drew myself to my feet in readiness.
But at that moment he moved to speak to Vastic. He spoke in a whisper and seemed to expostulate. But the leader remained unmoved by what he said, and the second man with a shrug of the shoulders stepped back to his former place.
Helga watched the short whispered conference closely, but gave no sign of any feeling, momentous as the import was to her.
Drexel was, however, growing deeply agitated. His face was as white as salt, great beads of perspiration were on his forehead, his lips were quivering, and he clenched and unclenched his hands with quick nervous movements.