"I'll see them damned first," said Max. "You keep still, and leave it to me."
His hand was on the door with the words. A moment more he stood, thick-set and British, looking back. Then with a curt nod, he opened the door, and passed instantly out, pulling it after him.
Half a dozen soldiers filled the passage. The one who had knocked—an officer—stood face to face with him.
"Now what do you want?" asked Max.
He stood, holding the door-handle, his red brows drawn, a glint of battle in the green eyes beneath them. And so, during a brief silence, they measured each other.
Then quite courteously the Frenchman spoke. "Monsieur, my duty brings me here. Will you have the goodness to open that door?"
"It's a good thing you can speak English," Max remarked, with his one-sided smile. "What do you want to go in there for? The room is mine."
"And you are entertaining a friend there, monsieur." The Frenchman still spoke suavely; he even smiled an answering smile.
"That is so," Max said. "Do you know his name?"
"It is Bertrand de Montville." There was no hesitation in the reply. He looked as if he expected the Englishman to move aside, as he made it. But Max stood his ground.