“You are an Austrian spy.”
“I am not,” returned Lewis; “I am an Englishman.”
The other again started, regarded him fixedly, and then resumed—
“Swear by all you hold sacred never to reveal that which you have learned to-night.”
“I will swear nothing, except to blow out your brains if you attempt to speak or move without my permission,” was the stern, uncompromising rejoinder.
The stranger’s lip quivered and his grasp tightened on the stiletto, but he caught the glance of Lewis’s flashing eyes and felt that he was in earnest, and that his life hung upon a thread. The members of the secret association were by this time noiselessly gliding away in parties of two and three, and Lewis, fearing if he remained too long he might attract the attention of the president, who still continued writing at the table, determined to depart; accordingly, he said in a low whisper—
“Now we will go—precede me; but if I observe you attempt, by word or sign, to betray me, that moment I shoot you like a dog.”
The stranger, who seemed by this time sullenly to have resigned himself to his fate, or possibly to be reserving his strength for the execution of some scheme which he had devised for the future, obeyed in silence, and left the vault closely followed by Lewis, who still retained a firm grasp of his collar, although the ample folds of his cloak prevented the fact from being observed. In this manner they reached the door at the top of the stairs, and here were stationed two brawny-limbed, ruffianly-looking fellows, who acted in the double capacity of porter and sentry. Their attention, however, appeared solely directed to prevent the intrusion of any unwelcome visitant, the advisability of refusing egress to any one who had already passed their scrutiny never seeming to occur to them. This Lewis felt to be the deciding moment of his fate; once outside the gate he would be in comparative safety. Pressing the muzzle of the pistol against the back of his companion’s neck by way of a gentle hint, he muttered, “Remember!”
The young man shuddered slightly as the cold iron touched him, but made no reply. As they reached the gateway, the janitor stationed on the left side, addressing Lewis’s companion, made some inquiry in a low voice. Glancing round appealingly, as if to indicate that he was forced, even for their common safety, to reply, he spoke a few words in a dialect Lewis did not comprehend, when the gate-keeper respectfully held the wicket open and they passed out. And now once again Lewis felt that he was a free man, and he inwardly congratulated himself on having escaped so great peril, which congratulations were, as the event proved, somewhat premature.
Having descended the steps, Lewis loosened his hold on the stranger’s collar, saying carelessly, as he replaced his pistol in his breast—