Sabatoff answered with the quiet of one long accustomed to tragedies such as this, who himself expected some day to be a victim. “The hope that General Valenko might save them was our last and only chance.”
“But we cannot just sit here and watch that clock creep round to four!” Drexel sprang up desperately. “Can’t we at least go out and publicly proclaim the identity of Sonya and Borodin? In hotels, restaurants, theatres!”
“What will that do?”
“Why, the roused public will never let the prince and princess of so great a family die on the scaffold!”
“Even if we succeeded in rousing the people, they could not move the Government.”
“But let’s try, man!”
“If so high an official as General Valenko tried to save them and was arrested, what can the people do? No, that plan would only be a vain waste of these last few hours.”
“But, God, there must be something we can do!”
“I wish there was!” groaned Sabatoff.
Drexel dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands, and tried with pure muscle to press an idea from his aching forehead. But he could not long sit thus. He paced the floor—thinking—thinking—wildly thinking. He looked at the clock. “Half past ten!” he breathed, and continued his frantic walk. Sabatoff’s eyes followed him in keen sympathy; deeply as he felt the impending tragedy on his own account, he felt an especial pang on Drexel’s, for it was easy guessing what lay behind Drexel’s agonized concern.