“Silence!” he hissed. The sweat stood on his steep forehead and a hectic flush on either cheek, but there was a smile—what a smile!—on his lips. Motioning us to tread noiselessly (a vain ideal for me), he led the way to the sitting-room we knew, switched on the light, and faced us.
“Well?” he said, in English, still smiling.
I consulted my watch, and I may say that if my hand was an index to my general appearance, I must have looked the most abject ruffian under heaven.
“We probably understand one another,” I said, “and to explain is to lose time. We sail for Holland, or perhaps England, at five at the latest, and we want the pleasure of your company. We promise you immunity—on certain conditions, which can wait. We have only two berths, so that we can only accommodate Miss Clara besides yourself.” He smiled on through this terse harangue, but the smile froze, as though beneath it raged some crucial debate. Suddenly he laughed (a low, ironical laugh).
“You fools,” he said, “you confounded meddlesome young idiots; I thought I had done with you. Promise me immunity? Give me till five? By God, I’ll give you five minutes to be off to England and be damned to you, or else to be locked up for spies! What the devil do you take me for?”
“A traitor in German service,” said Davies, none too firmly. We were both taken aback by this slashing attack.
“A tr——? You pig-headed young marplots! I’m in British service! You’re wrecking the work of years—and on the very threshold of success.”
For an instant Davies and I looked at one another in stupefaction. He lied—I could swear he lied; but how make sure?
“Why did you try to wreck Davies?” said I, mechanically.
“Pshaw! They made me clear him out. I knew he was safe, and safe he is.”