"I'm afraid I must, though," said the American decisively, buttoning up his coat and putting on his snow boots over his evening shoes.
"We really cannot allow you to depart," persisted Meyer, walking to the hall-door and ostentatiously shooting a massive bolt.
A gleam lighted in Trafford's eye, but his response was politeness itself.
I must insist on tearing myself away," he retorted.
Saunders and Meyer exchanged glances.
"Herr Trafford," said the latter, "when I said you must not go, I meant to couch a command in terms of courtesy. The streets of Weidenbruck are in a dangerous state to-night, and as the person responsible for the public safety I really cannot sanction your departure from the Neptunburg."
Trafford glanced round him. On either side were flunkeys in powdered wigs, knee breeches, and yellow coats. Between him and the street he desired to gain was—an elderly Jew.
"Is your command based solely on a concern for my personal safety?" he asked.
"Solely," was Meyer's sarcastic reply.
"Then I shall disregard it," said Trafford, producing his gun and flourishing it about in reckless fashion, "for I am quite capable of protecting myself, dear General, I assure you."