"I'm sorry about this, Valerie," he said. "We might have had such a lot of fun."
Five minutes was no time at all. It seemed to be only a few moments before the big iron key rattled in the lock and the door opened again.
Bravache bowed in the doorway, his teeth shining in the set sneering grin that sat so naturally on his cold haughty face.
"You are ready?" he inquired.
It was a second or two before Lady Valerie got up.
The Saint rose to his feet after her. For all that he had suffered, the cords still held his wrists. But he had his strength, saved and stored up through all the hours when it had been useless to struggle: he had always had the strength of two or three ordinary men, and at this time when he had need of it all for one supreme effort his own will might make it greater. If only that was enough… Now that the last sands were trickling away he was conscious of a curious inward peace, a great stillness, an utter carelessness in which his nerves were like threads of ice.
He let the girl go first, and followed her back into the big barren room from which they had been taken.
Luker and Marteau still sat at the long table under the flag. Marteau was drawing nervous figures on the bare wood with a stub of pencil, but Luker was outwardly untouched by anxiety. Simon and Valerie were marched up in front of the table, and the escort of Sons of France re-formed around them; and Luker looked up at them with nothing but confidence on his square stony features.
"Have you made up your minds?"
"Yes," answered the Saint.