“Count de Cartienne will be with you in a moment,” he said, walking to the door. “Kindly excuse me.”
I turned the lamp a little higher and looked around. The room was quite a small one and plainly furnished as a waiting-room.
For the first time I began to realise fully what I had done in coming to this place at such an hour. Some wild thoughts of a tardy retreat flashed into my mind, and I tried the handle of the door by which we had entered. It turned, but the door remained closed. I stooped down and examined it. The result was as I had feared—a spring lock had fastened it. I tried the other door, by which my guide had issued. The result was the same. I was a prisoner.
I had scarcely time to realise my position before it became necessary to act. The door was suddenly opened and Count de Cartienne stood before me, his eyes flashing with anger and his tall, lithe frame quivering with rage.
“Why have you not brought that box?” he exclaimed in a low, fierce tone.
I stood up facing him, with my back to the table, striving to keep calm, for the situation was critical. The complete change in his appearance and manner towards me was sufficient warning.
“The box is safe enough,” I answered. “You can have it in an hour’s time. But——”
“But what?” he interrupted, savagely. “Why have you not brought it, as I bade you in my note? Why is it not here? We want it at once!”
“You forget that there is a quid pro quo which I expect from you. It seems to me, Count de Cartienne, that you are making a tool of me, and——”
“What is it you want—to see this man Marx?”