He looked into her fearless eyes, which fell at length before his own.
"We will let it stand," he agreed curtly. "But what of your friend?" he went on, "will he get away?"
"If he wishes," answered the Princess easily. "It would take more than two men to capture Father Bernhardt. I have no further anxiety on his account, but what about me—poor me?"
"About you?" he repeated, without understanding.
"Where am I to spend the night?"
Trafford passed his hand through his ruffled locks, dislodging therefrom several pieces of frozen snow. Then he looked at the man who had staggered under his blow against the wall, and who was eyeing them with a malignancy that bespoke rapid recuperation. The man who had fallen into the street had risen to his knees and was muttering something—a curse or a prayer—and might speedily exchange speech for action. The two pursuers of Father Bernhardt might return,—baffled of their prey and breathing threatenings and slaughter,—at any moment.
Trafford grasped the Princess's hand and dragged her across the street.
"Herr Krantz's wine shop," he insisted.
"Is in the occupation of spies," retorted the Princess.
"Then what——?"