“He does not mean it?” he cried.
Maurice shrugged, and lighted another cigarette.
“Whatever happens to me, old boy, you won’t betray our secret.”
“No; but—he can’t mean it, Maurice.”
Further speech was prevented when Slavianski came up and demanded that Maurice should take off his coat and waistcoat. These he searched thoroughly: there was no despatch in pockets or lining. Meanwhile Rostopchin and the other Austrians had gone to the back of the house, taken the valise from the gyro-car, turned out its contents, and thoroughly overhauled them. Then Slavianski himself joined them and searched the gyro-car, finding nothing but the Guide Taride, the maps they had bought en route, and the provisions brought from Durazzo. By this time the ten minutes had expired.
The Count returned to the front of the house. His face was black with rage. Addressing George, he cried:
“Are you a fool like your brozer? Vere is ze despatch?”
“I have nothing to say to you,” replied George, his cheeks going white.
“Zen I vill shoot your brozer before your eyes: and if zat does not cure you of your obstinacy, ze next bullet shall be for you.”
He raged up to Maurice.