"Yes, yes--there is room," said Markov thoughtfully. "We could make room. My poor instrument of torture! And Fra Umberto!"
"You do not wish to part with them?"
"It is not that. But I would not sell them, Herr Rowland. What I give, I give,--in the fullness of my heart."
"I can't ask more of you. Perhaps it will be but a loan----"
"Wait----," said Markov, his hand to his brow. "I am thinking." They watched in a moment of silence, when Herr Markov rose and took a pace or two toward the window.
"Yes. Yes. It could be done. It shall be done. My poor machine! We shall disembowel it--take out all its poor noisy entrails. It can be done in a short while. And the Fräulein shall sit inside, and travel in state to the Swiss border."
"A stroke of genius," cried Rowland excitedly. "I hadn't thought of that. And the money----?"
"A soft cushion of bank notes to sit upon."
"Ten thousand marks--a hundred thousand if you will but do it."
Matthais Markov looked at him reproachfully.