A prolonged whistle startled him. He saw the whistle at zu Pfeiffer’s lips, but the act conveyed no meaning. He turned away, struck another match and peered again at the photograph.
“Lucille! Lucille!” he whispered. “What on earth——”
A powerful clutch closed upon his arm. He was whirled backwards into a chair. For a moment he was too dazed to grasp what had happened. He saw zu Pfeiffer’s face. The sentries over his moustaches quivered like a row of fixed bayonets. The eyes seemed needle points. Then the fact of the assault penetrated beyond the unprecedented incident of finding his wife’s photograph in another man’s room. The ugly line about the mouth hardened. He rose slowly.
“Am I to understand that you have laid your hands upon your guest?” he began, stuttering over the choice of words. “I am—I am——”
The scuffle of many feet interrupted him. Into the room rushed Sergeant Schultz and several soldiers. Zu Pfeiffer stood up and pointed.
“Sergeant, arrest that man!” he barked.
“Ja, Excellence!”
The sergeant saluted and barked at the askaris. Birnier gazed stupidly at the uniforms around him as if unable to comprehend. He looked at zu Pfeiffer who stood erect, his face lost in shadow above the lamp, and back at the soldiers.
“Is this a joke, Lieutenant—or are you mad?” he demanded angrily.
“Sergeant, put that man in the guard-room,” zu Pfeiffer commanded.