The count indulged in a weak whistle to relieve his astonishment. “Dead or alive!” he exclaimed. “It ought to be easy, Baron. I could put the dwarf in my pocket—if I could get my hands on him.”
Wollenstein grunted deprecatingly, “We cannot afford to take any chances, Count,” he said emphatically. “We are in a desperate position. Our heads are forfeit to the state unless we can take our fatted calf with us when we go above as returning prodigals. It’s all very well to talk about capturing the dwarf alive, but you can’t catch rats in this infernal cellar by chasing them. Our only chance lies in seizing Cousin Fritz and rendering all opportunity of escape impossible at one stroke. It’s easily done. Let me get hold of the little imp once and Wilhelm shall have a court jester, dead or alive, as the case may be.” There was a cruel menace in the baron’s voice that was carefully noted by a dwarfish eavesdropper.
“What was that?” asked the count, starting nervously and gazing into the shadows with straining eyes.
“Ach Gott! Are you scared by rats?” muttered the baron sarcastically. “Now come to the point, Count! Do you understand me? We must act, and act immediately. Our only hope lies in the capture of the dwarf. We must set about it at once, and take him—dead or alive.”
“Yes, dead or alive,” repeated Count von Reibach mechanically, seizing his companion’s arm and turning to retrace his steps.
There came a snapping sound, as though a trap had been sprung somewhere in the darkness. The floor slipped away in creaking grooves and at the edge of the abyss stood Cousin Fritz, smiling maliciously as he gazed down into the blackness. A dull sound, as if huge rubber balls had struck the centre of the earth, came up through the grewsome hole.
“Two of a kind!” cried the madman, in a shrill, penetrating voice. “Two of a kind—and I’ve discarded them!”
He whistled gayly as he scurried back toward his apartments. Now and then he would break into song and his keen voice would startle the bats from slumber in the furthermost recesses of the great vaults.
“Two of a kind! Two of a kind! Two of a kind!” he cried with hysterical energy now and again. “Two of a kind, but a very small pair! Ha, ha! I had no use for two of a kind, two of a kind, two of a kind!”
Suddenly he stood still and listened intently. “The King is dead, long live the King!” he shouted, and the cellar re-echoed the weird cry. “The King is dead! Live the King!”