I divined his purpose. He was bent on warning the conspirators. With one bound I had him by the collar, and with a fierce wrench dragged him back and flung him against the bar, spluttering inarticulate protests.
The barkeeper had seized a revolver, but before he could raise it, he was in the hands of my men. He submitted without resistance and with the cheerful spirit of one to whom the outcome is a matter of small importance.
"Keep that man quiet," I said, with the hope that the noise of struggle had not reached the Council-room. Then I gripped H. Blasius by his fat throat.
"Give me the countersign!" I demanded.
He gave a scream of terror and dropped to his knees.
"Have pity--do not keel me. Mon Dieu! I am one good citizen. I make no plots wiz ze r-revolutionists."
"The countersign," I repeated grimly, tightening my grip on his throat, while two of my assistants reinforced my argument by prodding him in the sides with their sticks.
"Leeberty--leeberty or deat',"--Mr. H. Blasius pronounced it "debt"--"zat is ze countersign," he gasped through his constricted windpipe. And assured by his eyes that he was telling the truth, I flung him into the arms of my men.
"Shut off his wind if he tries to give a warning," I said, and with a word I picked a squad from my company and gave them brief instructions:
"Follow me up the stairs. Don't make a noise. And when I give the signal push me through the door."