He replied in a string of Alarian which I judged to be oaths of no mean venom. For a moment he left the hole, probably to tear his hair. I then rebandaged John’s hands, and when I had finished, the man above was again peering down through his hole and seemed inclined to treat us with less abruptness. At least he was silent while I pulled the bed apart, found two mattresses on it, spread all of the plaster I could gather up between them, and then remade the bed, taking a great deal of trouble to have it look as much as possible as though it had been slept in. My efforts did not satisfy John. He laughed at me, lay down on the bed, and rolled around on it. When he got up again the bed was perfect. It was tumbled just enough.
“There is one place beside the washing table,” I was directed again. I didn’t wish the man any harm, and for the time being, of course, we were friends of the Visichiches’ enemies, but he was peculiarly irritating. However, I picked up the piece beside the washstand, and tossed it out of the window. He grunted a protest, but said nothing. I had barely finished when there came a knock at the door, and when I had opened it, a man gave us a large can of hot water, a flat leather case containing seven old-fashioned razors—one for each day in the week and I hoped we shouldn’t have time to use them—a whisk broom, two tooth brushes, a cake of perfumed toilet soap, and a note. The latter bore no signature. It read, simply, “When you are ready to come down stairs, knock on the door. The man will be waiting for you. We will discuss our affairs over lunch.”
John, meanwhile, had been dressing. His hands handicapped him a little, but not seriously. “You’re not to get them wet,” I said, and I washed his face for him, and shaved him. It was a risky business with the open razors, but I accomplished it with no great casualties, and then brushed our clothes, and shined our shoes with a towel.
“Oh, for a whole lot of clean clothes, and a cold shower,” I said, remembering with a sigh the little pleasant luxuries of life back home. The common people in the Balkans look on bathing as at least unorthodox, if not actually sinful, and very unhealthy, and the upper classes have only progressed beyond the Saturday night stage if they have lived in more civilised communities. In other words, the people of the Balkans live as our grandparents did.
At last we were ready, but before we knocked on the door we whispered “Good-bye” to the man above us. He had recovered his poise, and smiled down quite pleasantly.
“Gentlemen,” he spoke very softly because of the man outside the door. “Tell me, gentlemen, you are guests here? You are friends of the Count Visichich?”
“Not in the least,” John answered, casually, “we are very probably prisoners here, though no one has said so yet.”
“Ah,” the face above was suddenly wreathed in smiles. He looked almost a decent sort of chap when he smiled, and vaguely familiar. Probably, I considered, because he was so very much the night club type.
“If you find you are not prisoners,” he asked, “where will you go?”
“We had started for Herrovosca,” I answered. “If they let us we’ll go there.”