"I'm not afraid of the arm of Nemi--because," and he laughed, "it's my arm, Monsieur."
Khodkine paused a moment, shrugged his disbelief, and then in a lower tone,
"There is only one person who can help you get this money safely away, Monsieur Rowland," he said.
"And he is----"
"Myself. The German border is less than fifteen kilometers away. Once beyond it, I am safe. See!" And while Rowland watched him closely, he thrust a hand into his pocket and drew out some papers, one of which bore signatures, a photograph and a seal. "My laisser passer and yours, Monsieur, if you choose to accompany me."
Rowland's eyes opened wider and his jaw fell. This was the real Khodkine--stripped to the skin that had been born Hochwald. But the American made no reply and waited for the revelation to be complete.
Khodkine wasted no words, and his voice concentrated in a tense whisper.
"The money is negotiable, and will pave a broad highway from here to Holland, if one knows the ropes. You are not a rich man, Monsieur. Nor am I. Think what a great fortune like this means, even to you in America where there are many great fortunes. You will be a prince. I too. We will go together and the world will lie at our feet. Is it not a wonderful picture?"
Rowland heard him through until the end, when the look of astonishment upon his face--indeed more than half real--changed to sterner lines and the muzzle of the rifle slowly came up level with Monsieur Khodkine's breast.
"Why, you d---- rascal!" he growled sternly. "You pig--dog of a thieving Boche!" he repeated deliberately. He paused a moment as Khodkine straightened. "You're a poor conspirator, Herr Lieutnant Gregory Hochwald!" he said with a malicious laugh, as Khodkine gasped. "Hochwald of the Guard!" he repeated, "Prussian Guard 1906--Secret Agent of General von Stromberg--Russian socialist! Bah, Grisha Khodkine. I've got your dossier. It's a sweet one."