He avoided the outstretched hand by turning to the countess. “I came to tell you of our disaster. But Mr. Freeman must have told you.”
“Yes,” she said. She was very white, and looked with sickening dread from man to man.
“Then I will not stay. The police are after me, and I must get into hiding.”
“Wait, I’ll go with you,” Freeman eagerly put in. “I was just leaving, and I want to talk over some plans for retrieving our loss.”
Drexel had counted on just this offer when he had decided it would be safest not to try to take his vengeance here. But he did not show his satisfaction.
“Very well. Come on.”
Freeman slipped on his overcoat, and as he did so he swiftly transferred his pistol to the overcoat’s outer pocket. “I’m ready. Good-night, countess.”
She knew that Freeman was armed, that Drexel had but his bare hands. “Don’t go yet, Mr. Drexel,” she said, trying to speak calmly.
“Thank you. But I must,” he returned.
She laid a hand upon his arm. It seemed a casual touch, but the fingers gripped him tensely, warningly, with wild appeal.