"Death! Tomorrow!" The words fell from his lips sharply. "Will you speak or will you not? On the one hand--what I have promised--on the other--a military trial--a matter of minutes, and then--a stone wall--a volley--and a tumbled heap of soiled clothing upon the ground. Zoya Rochal--the most beautiful woman in Europe. I paint a true portrait. I have seen----"
"Excellency----!"
"You will speak?"
Her voice had sunk to a murmur and Rowland could not distinctly hear but he felt suddenly very ill. She was telling. Zoya was betraying Tanya and Matthias Markov. A sudden fury possessed him. He gripped the tiles in a struggle to control the impulse to murder that was in his heart. But the fever passed. Tanya! He must get word to Markov--a hurdy-gurdy--a donkey--their trail from Munich was wide and long and the expedient that had seemed so certain of success was now doomed to sudden disaster unless he could reach Markov before von Stromberg's men were put upon the track.
Did Zoya know which way the pair had gone? He tried to think. Only Markov and he knew the itinerary--he listened intently.
"I do not know, Excellency," said Zoya in a suppressed voice. "I do not know more. To Switzerland, by the nearest route. A piano-organ, a donkey. You promise?"
"Herr Markov and the Fräulein shall meet with no harm. I give you my word, as Councilor of the Empire. He shall go free. For your sake I will merely send him to Austria and you----" He broke off with a laugh, "You, Madame, shall have the rest of Europe to yourself."
"Thanks, Excellency," she murmured. "And I am free?"
"As the air. Once a day you will report at the Police Headquarters of Munich until further notice."
Rowland heard his footsteps and the sound of the door latch.