Peter Ruff drove back from the cemetery with the Marquis de Sogrange, and, for the first time since the death of Madame, serious subjects were spoken of.
“I have waited here patiently,” he declared, “but there are limits. I want my wife.”
Sogrange took him by the arm and led him into the library of the house in the Rue de St. Quintaine. The six men who were already there waiting rose to their feet.
“Gentlemen,” the Marquis said, “is it your will that I should be spokesman?”
There was a murmur of assent. Then Sogrange turned toward his companion, and something new seemed to have crept into his manner—a solemn, almost a threatening note.
“Peter Ruff,” he continued, “you have trifled with the one organization in this world which has never allowed liberties to be taken with it. Men who have done greater service than you have died, for the disobedience of a day. You have been treated leniently, according to the will of Madame. According to her will, and in deference to the position which you must now take up among us, we will treat you as no other has ever been treated by us. The Double-Four admits your leadership and claims you for its own.”
“I am not prepared to discuss anything of the sort,” Peter Ruff declared, doggedly, “until my wife is restored to me.”
The Marquis smiled.
“The traditions of your race, Mr. Ruff,” he said, “are easily manifest in you. Now hear our decision. Your wife shall be restored to you on the day when you take up this position to which you have become entitled. Sit down and listen.”
Peter Ruff was a rebel at heart, but he felt the grip of iron.