“That being the case, I am not going to attempt to yell my head off, thank you. It would be a clean waste of breath.”
The little anarchist uttered a curse.
“Fool!” he grated. “You do not seem to realize that you are doomed to die. I am here to kill you!”
“Well, I presume you will do it in a decent sort of way. I am not hankering to be tortured to death.”
Durant drew back. What manner of human being was this who could face death thus calmly?
For some moments the man was silent. He believed the boy had not yet come to realize that everything was in earnest, and was not a practical joke.
And Frank was wondering if Mademoiselle Mystere could save him—if she would.
“She must be given time,” thought the boy. “I must take up Durant’s attention. He must not hear or see her.”
So Frank said:
“As long as I am to be killed, and there is no escaping such a fate, would you mind telling me just what this is about? Why have you taken so much pains to put me out of the way?”