“Drop that poker!”
He did so. The iron fell into the thick woof of the carpet, sizzling and causing a vile odor.
Still covering the astounded old wretch with her weapon, the girl sidled over to Ned and slashed the rope from off his arms with a penknife. Instantly she shoved the revolver into the boy’s hands and collapsed swooning into the nearest chair. Ned kicked the smoking poker over into the fireplace. A grim smile edged his lips.
“Now will you tell me the things that you know are planned for to-morrow night out at the Schoenbrunn chateau where Franz Joseph will spend the night?” he asked sternly.
“No! Shoot if you wish, but I never desert my comrades. I am a man of honor.”
“‘A man of honor?’ You, who in cold blood contemplate the assassination of your sovereign—a poor old man, already shattered in health and spirit over the miseries of his country? You are a disgrace to the ancient name you bear!”
Old Count Polnychek winced under the scathing scorn in the boy’s voice. The red blood suffused his deeply lined face.
“You would not dare insult me in this way were I not unarmed and at your mercy.”
“How about when you threatened to scar me with that hot poker? Count, you are—keep away from that bell or I fire!—are going to do my will this time. Let us sit down while you tell me all about it.”
“Tausend Teufeln, no!”