“I wish my hands were not tied.”
“Oh, no heroics, please. We have no time for nonsense of that sort. Is the light irritating you? I’ll put it here.”
Von Halwig stooped, and placed the torch on the broken ladder. Its radiance illumined an oval of the rough, square stones with which the barn was paved. Thenceforth, the vivid glare remained stationary. The two men, facing each other at a distance of about six feet, were in shadow. They could see each other quite well, however, in the dim borrowed light, and the Guardsman flicked the ash from his cigarette.
“You’re English, I’m German,” he said. “We represent the positive and negative poles of thought. If it hurts your feelings that I should speak of Lady Irene, let’s forget her. What I really want to ask you is this—why has England been so mad as to fight Germany?”
CHAPTER XIII
THE WOODEN HORSE OF TROY
The question struck Dalroy as so bizarre—in the conditions so ludicrous—that, despite the cold fury evoked by Von Halwig’s innuendoes with regard to Irene, he nearly laughed.
“I am in no mood to discuss international politics,” he answered curtly.