The unwavering mouth-line; level, dark brows almost meeting over unflinching gray eyes; the uncurved nose and commanding forehead were in concert with the clean, almost lean sweep of the jaw, in spelling force for field or council.
"Am I a brigand, Von Ritz, to be harassed by police? Answer me—am I?" Pagratide spoke in a tempest of anger. He halted before the other man, his hands twitching in fury.
Von Ritz remained as motionless, apparently as mildly interested, as though he were listening to the screaming of a parrot.
"My orders were explicit." His words fell icily. "They were the orders of His Majesty's government. I shall obey them. I beg pardon, I shall attempt to obey them; and thus far my attempts to serve His Majesty have not encountered failure. I should prefer not having to call on the ambassador—or the American secret service."
"By God! If I had a sword—" breathed Pagratide. His fury had gone through heat to cold, and his attitude was that of a man denied the opportunity of resenting a mortal affront.
Von Ritz coolly inclined his head, indicating the heaped-up luggage on the table between them. Otherwise he did not move.
"The stick there, on the table, is a sword-cane," he commented.
Pagratide stood unmoving.
The other waited a moment, almost deferentially, then went on with calm deliberation.
"You left your regiment without leave, captain. One might almost call that—" Then Benton remembered an auxiliary door at the back of his apartment and made his escape unnoticed.