Peter preserved his attitude of bland incredulity.
“Listen,” he said, drawing a whistle from his pocket, “it is just possible that you are in earnest. I will bet you, then, if you like, a hundred pounds, that if I blow this whistle you will either have to open your door within five minutes or find your house invaded by the police.”
No one spoke for several moments. The veins were standing out upon Bernadine’s forehead.
“We have had enough of this folly,” he cried. “If you refuse to realize your position, so much the worse for you. Blow your whistle, if you will. I am content.”
Peter waited for no second bidding. He raised the whistle to his lips and blew it, loudly and persistently. Again there was silence. Bernadine mocked him.
“Try once more, dear Baron,” he advised. “Your friends are perhaps a little hard of hearing. Try once more, and when you have finished, you and I and the Marquis de Sogrange will find our way once more to the gun room and conclude that trifling matter of business which brought you here.”
Again Peter blew his whistle and again the silence was broken only by Bernadine’s laugh. Suddenly, however, that laugh was checked. Every one had turned toward the door, listening. A bell was ringing throughout the house.
“It is the front door!” one of the servants exclaimed.
No one moved. As though to put the matter beyond doubt, there was a steady knocking to be heard from the same direction.
“It is a telegram or some late caller,” Bernadine declared, hoarsely. “Answer it, Carl. If any one would speak with the Baroness, she is indisposed and unable to receive. If any one desires me, I am here.”