"I don't know," said John; "I think he's downstairs."
"But surely some one was here to let you out?"
Cherriton and his Excellency von Kuhne had both entered the hall. His Excellency pushed shut the big door, and as John heard the latch click a curious sensation of finality seized him. On several occasions in past months he had been in tight situations. He had been in an awkward position, for instance, half an hour earlier, with Beecher Monmouth. The situation, however, which now held him in its grip was in point of danger beyond anything he had yet experienced. He knew that coolness and sang-froid and daring were the only weapons with which he could fight against the three national and ruthless enemies who stood about him in the dimly lit hall. He had shaken hands with Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, and, avoiding a direct answer to her last question, he now turned to von Kuhne and held out his hand.
"How do you do, doctor?"
"I am very well," answered his Excellency in his thick voice. He looked steadily into John's eyes. Manton could read nothing in his expression, and he gave his attention to Cherriton.
"It is a long time since we met, Cherriton!"
Cherriton bowed. He made no effort to shake hands; nevertheless his manner was not openly hostile, rather was it sharply and keenly watchful.
"Quite a long time," he answered.
John, looking again into the captain's cold, light blue eyes, his pale shaven face with its bony contours, his cruelly-turned mouth, thought him even more unpleasant than he had formerly believed. He was willing to grant, however, that Cherriton carried himself with an air, that he was a powerful, big-boned, tall, well-set-up fellow.
His own eyes and Cherriton's remained engaged for the fraction of a second, then Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's voice broke the tension.