“Tush! I would not trust his valuable life to you. Get up!” he commanded, and Oscar jerked Zmai to his feet.
“You deserve nothing at my hands, but I need a discreet messenger, and you shall not die to-night, as my worthy adjutant recommends. To-morrow night, however, or the following night—or any other old night, as we say in America—if you show yourself in these hills, my chief of staff shall have his way with you—buzzard meat!”
“The orders are understood,” said Oscar, thrusting the revolver into the giant’s ribs.
“Now, Zmai, blacksmith of Toplica, and assassin at large, here is a letter for Monsieur Chauvenet. It is still early. When you have delivered it, bring me back the envelope with Monsieur’s receipt written right here, under the seal. Do you understand?”
It had begun to dawn upon Zmai that his life was not in immediate danger, and the light of intelligence kindled again in his strange little eyes. Lest he might not fully grasp the errand with which Armitage intrusted him, Oscar repeated what Armitage had said in somewhat coarser terms.
Again through the moonlight strode the three—out of Armitage’s land to the valley road and to the same point to which Shirley Claiborne had only a few days before been escorted by the mountaineer.
There they sent the Servian forward to the Springs, and Armitage went home, leaving Oscar to wait for the return of the receipt.
It was after midnight when Oscar placed it in Armitage’s hands at the bungalow.
“Oscar, it would be a dreadful thing to kill a man,” Armitage declared, holding the empty envelope to the light and reading the line scrawled beneath the unbroken wax. It was in French:
“You are young to die, Monsieur.”