“A spy indeed, but a spy from the other side,” Domiloff muttered. “I wonder how much he heard.”
But Reist was speechless. To him the interruption had come like the awakening from a horrible dream. There was a man then—a man of Theos who knew him for a traitor.
The hue and cry had left them alone. Suddenly Domiloff stooped down. A soft felt hat lay almost at their feet. Through the brim and crown was a small round hole.
“It is his hat,” Domiloff muttered. “Why did I not aim an inch lower?”
He struck a match, and looked for the name inside the lining. It was Scott and Co., Bond Street, London.
Reist felt his cheeks burn, though the night was cool. Domiloff’s voice sounded unnaturally calm.
“It was the Englishman then, Walter Brand. Good!”
“The King’s friend,” Reist faltered.
Domiloff nodded.