"Very well." The prince, seemingly acquiescent, but with a dangerous glitter in his eyes, moved toward the telephone.
"One moment!"
The nobleman stopped with his hand near a receiver. His fingers trembled.
"You will speak in French. A syllable of Russian, just one, and—" Mr.
Heatherbloom's expression left no doubt as to his meaning.
"Dog!" His excellency's swollen face became the hue of paper. An instant he seemed about to spring—then managed to control himself. "But why should I not speak in Russian? My officers know no French."
"A lie! Nearly all Russian officers speak French. I happen to know yours do." A newspaper article had made the statement and he did not doubt it. "Anyhow, you give the order in French and we'll see what happens."
The blood surged in the nobleman's face. The fierce desire to avenge himself at once on this man who threw the lie at him—august, illustrious—mingled, however, with yet another feeling—one of bewilderment. The fellow had spoken these last words in French, and choice French at that. His accents had all the elegance of the Faubourg Saint Germain.
"Quick!" The decision in the intruder's manner was unmistakable. "I have wasted all the time I intend to. My finger trembles on the trigger."
The prince, perforce, was quick. The telephone of foreign design, had two receivers. His excellency took one. Mr. Heatherbloom reached for the other and held it to his ear with his left hand. His right, holding the weapon, was behind the prince, as the latter poignantly realized. Ill-suppressed rage made his excellency's tones now slightly wavering:
"Are you there, M. le Capitaine?"