"My compliments, Madame Rochal, upon your discretion. I hope that your beautiful neck may not be scarred. I will indeed see that a doctor is sent to you at once. In the meanwhile--au revoir."
The door closed with a bang and Rowland heard the heavy footsteps going down the bare stairs. And in a little while from a perch in the shadow of the dormer window he marked the tall figure with his soldier attendant enter an automobile and drive swiftly away.
Rowland waited a moment, desperate--uncertain--sure only that he must find some means of getting a message over the wire to the luckless Markov and Tanya at Weingarten, where they would have arrived tonight, but in a grim apprehension as to his ability to reach a telegraph office. But there was no time to delay. The moments were precious. In half an hour--perhaps less--Von Stromberg would have instructions wired to his agents in every town between Munich and the Swiss frontier. And so, reckless of his silhouette as he crawled in at the window, he again entered the room. Zoya was standing, facing him, pale, expectant, terrified at the look she saw in his eyes. She caught at his arm but as he strode to the door she seized him again and held him fiercely.
"Where are you going----?"
"Away from here--from the sight of you----"
"You heard----?"
"Yes. You've betrayed us--for money----"
"That is not true, Philippe," she whispered wildly, as she fought to keep his hand from the door knob. "You did not hear what passed----"
"I heard enough----"
"I lied to him,--told him that you had gone. He believes it----"