“So I am the prisoner of The White One?”
They nodded.
“But why? What have I done?”
“I have already said we do not know,” returned Nicolai. “We have merely done what we were told.”
Drexel’s poise began to return to him. He took off his shuba and tossed it upon the crookbacked couch.
“All right, boys,” he said drily. “Just as you say. It’s a rule of my life to be obliging to the man who’s got the drop on me.”
“Will you be quiet, or”—Nicolai motioned toward a few pieces of rope in a corner.
“Oh, I’ll be quiet—for the present.” He sat down. “By the way—who is this White One?”
“We do not know,” said Nicolai. “We have never seen him. Our orders came through a second person.”
Ivan moved from the door across to Nicolai, begged Drexel’s Browning pistol with a mute look, and gave in exchange the big revolver. “That was really Nicolai’s, but he let me carry it,” he explained to Drexel. He patted the black, fearsome weapon, his face glowing on Nicolai. “Ah, comrade, what a beauty!”