“She is in the great hall,” he said. “The guard is waiting at the end of the corridor.”
“Oh, it’s to be a military wedding, then?”
“Yes, in a sense.”
The younger man appreciated the nice distinction Steinbaum was drawing. The waiting “guard” was the firing-party.
“What time is it?” he demanded, so sharply that the fat man started. For a skilled intriguer Steinbaum was ridiculously nervous.
“A quarter past seven.”
“Allow me to put the question as delicately as possible, but—er—is there any extension of time beyond eight o’clock?”
“Señor Suarez would not give one minute.”
“He knows about the ceremony, of course?”
“Yes.”