The man's sly look made Frank itch to thrash him. It was clear from his manner that he was acting under instructions. Frank noticed, too, that his food was being reduced in quantity as well as poorer in quality, and suspected that this was directly due to Wonckhaus; the Turks as a rule do not treat their prisoners inhumanely. More than once he had thought of trying to escape, and with his increasing hardships his mind recurred to it again and again. To get out of the building might not be very difficult; Orientals are notoriously slack in guard; the lock of his room might be forced, and the soldiers in the rooms below evaded. But then the real difficulties would begin. He would be recognised in the streets as a European; even before he could reach the walls discovery and arrest were certain. Escape was impossible without assistance from outside, and he had no means of communicating with friends, nor was it probable that any European friends remained in the town.
Tortured by cold and hunger, Frank spent the most wretched month of his life during December. Strong though he was in constitution, he felt that he was growing weaker. For a time he tried to keep himself in condition by daily physical exercises; but insufficient food and lack of fresh air--he was allowed to mount to the roof for an hour a day--gradually reduced his energy. There was nothing to alleviate the tedium of his imprisonment: no newspapers, no books, nothing to occupy his mind. He was often tempted to purchase his freedom by surrendering his secret; but his native resolution and the mental picture of Wonckhaus's triumph kept him steadfast. And it was no ordinary will that could have withstood day after day Hussein's sly reminders of how easy it would be to command all the comforts he lacked.
One day early in January he heard unusual sounds on the staircase--a series of heavy clumping blows slowly ascending towards his room. The door opened, and Wonckhaus hobbled in on a crutch, assisted by an orderly, who stood in the doorway as if on guard, motionless, with expressionless face. The German looked pale and worn. He was swathed in heavy furs.
"I had not thought to revisit you so soon, Mr. Forester," he said, "but a Russian bullet has enforced me to return to the city for a short time, and I felt bound to see how you were faring."
Frank was silent; he was, in fact, amazed that Wonckhaus should have cared to show his face again after what had passed at their last interview. "The Germans must have uncommonly tough hides," he thought.
"Is there anything I can do for your comfort?" Wonckhaus continued. "You are not looking very well. I have some influence, a very little, with the Turks."
The German's manner was so subdued, his tone so courteous, that Frank wondered whether after all he had misjudged him. Perhaps he had been over hasty; perhaps there was some decent feeling in the man, which his own uncompromising attitude had prevented from showing itself before.
"I want warmth and good food," he said.
"Not warm enough?" exclaimed Wonckhaus. "Yet it does not appear cold. Indeed, I am too warm." He unloosed his fur coat. "And food, too; why, what do they give you?"
Frank saw that the German was playing with him. In a revulsion of feeling he flushed hotly, and was about to give utterance to his thoughts, but he restrained himself with an effort and remained silent.