“Yes.”
“Well, he is not here.”
I checked the rejoinder which, had I spoken it, would probably have cost me my life.
“Where is he, then?” I asked.
“I will tell you when you have written for that box,” he said, opening a drawer and placing pen and paper upon the table.
I shook my head. “There is no need for me to write. It is of no use my remaining if Mr. Marx is not here. Send your servant back with me and I will give it him.”
“No, I shall hold you as a hostage for the box. Besides, I have a few words to say to you, boy,” he added grimly. “Write.”
I hesitated, but only for a moment.
“Do I understand that you detain me here against my will?” I said, slowly.
“Understand anything you please, but write.”