Bower spoke curtly. Stampa and he were halfway across the narrow strip of undulating meadow land which shut off the hotel from the village. They had followed the footpath, a busy thoroughfare bombarded with golf balls on fine mornings, but likely to be unfrequented till the snow melted. Receiving no answer, Bower glanced sharply at his companion; but the old guide might be unaware of his presence, so steadily did he trudge onward, with downcast, introspective eyes. Resolved to make an end of a silence that was irksome, Bower halted.
Then, for the first time, Stampa opened his lips. “Not here,” he said.
“Why not? We are alone.”
“You must come with me, Herr Baron.”
“That is not my title.”
“It used to be. It will serve as well as any other.”
“I refuse to stir a yard farther.”
“Then,” said Stampa, “I will kill you where you stand!”
Neither in voice nor feature did he exhibit any emotion. He merely put forward an all-sufficing reason, and left it at that.