“I think it is warmer to-night,” said Maggie, urged by a sudden necessity of speech, hampered by a sudden chill at the heart.
“Yes,” answered Etta. And she shivered.
For a moment there was a little silence and Etta looked at the clock. It was ten minutes to seven.
A high wind was blowing, the first of the equinoctial gales heralding the spring. The sound of the wind in the great chimney was like the moaning of high rigging at sea.
The door opened and Steinmetz came in. Etta’s face hardened, her lips closed with a snap. Steinmetz looked at her and at Maggie. For once he seemed to have no pleasantry ready for use. He walked toward a table where some books and newspapers lay in pleasant profusion. He was standing there when Paul came into the room. The prince glanced at Maggie. He saw where his wife stood, but he did not look at her.
Steinmetz was writing something on half a sheet of notepaper, in pencil. He pushed it across the table toward Paul, who drew it nearer to him.
“Are you armed?” were the written words.
Paul crushed the paper in the hollow of his hand and threw it into the fire, where it burned away. He also glanced at the clock. It was five minutes to seven.
Suddenly the door was thrown open and a manservant rushed in—pale, confused, terror-stricken. He was a giant footman in the gorgeous livery of the Alexis.
“Excellency,” he stammered in Russian, “the castle is surrounded—they will kill us—they will burn us out——”