They made sure of him. The cords cut into his flesh as they drew them hard and tight. Knot after knot they made, and soon he was quite helpless.
“Now for the proof,” directed Durant.
Deft fingers flitted from pocket to pocket. Out came a card—the one Wynne had given him in front of the Café de la Paix. Durant could read English, and when he told them what was on that card, something like a muffled howl of fury escaped their lips.
“It is the spy! There can be no doubt! Death to the spy!”
Frank smiled scornfully. He had fought them, one against seven, and till the sandbag had been used he was a match for them all.
“He cannot deny he is the spy!” cried Vaugirad in the boy’s face. “He will not deny it now!”
“What is the use?” came from the lad’s lips. “You would not believe me if I did deny it. I will not waste my breath.”
“Brave! brave! brave!” panted the masked woman, who was leaning weakly against the door-casing. “And I brought him to this! Why are there not more in the world like him! I could worship him! But he must die!”
She pressed both her hands over her throbbing heart, and her words were whispered so faintly that they reached no ears but her own.
“It would be a waste of breath,” snarled the panting Durant. “We know you are the one. You come here to pry into our secrets, to expose them to the world. Fool! Do you think you can do what the police of Paris have failed to accomplish? We have our agents everywhere, and no one can make a move to harm us that we do not know. The hour of anarchy’s triumph is here! The revolution of the world is about to open. Blood will run, empires will fall, riches shall be scattered, and from the ruins a new order of things shall arise. Some of us will not live to see it; some may live to see it. But you, you American spy! you will be long gone—decayed, turned to dust!”