“Where is John Armitage?”
Chauvenet half raised his right arm as he spoke and the steel of his revolver flashed.
Claiborne did not move; he smiled upon them, recrossed his legs, and settled his back more comfortably against the mantel-shelf.
“I really forget where he said he would be at this hour. He and his man may have gone to Washington, or they may have started for Vienna, or they may be in conference with Baron von Marhof at my father’s, or they may be waiting for you at the gate. The Lord only knows!”
“Come; we waste time,” said Durand in French. “It is a trap. We must not be caught here!”
“Yes; you’d better go,” said Claiborne, yawning and settling himself in a new pose with his back still to the fireplace. “I don’t believe Armitage will care if I use his bungalow occasionally during my sojourn in the hills; and if you will be so kind as to leave my horse well tied out there somewhere I believe I’ll go to bed. I’m sorry, Mr. Chauvenet, that I can’t just remember who introduced you to me and my family. I owe that person a debt of gratitude for bringing so pleasant a scoundrel to my notice.”
He stepped to the table, his hands in his pockets, and bowed to them.
“Good night, and clear out,” and he waved his arm in dismissal.
“Come!” said Durand peremptorily, and as Chauvenet hesitated, Durand seized him by the arm and pulled him toward the door.
As they mounted and turned to go they saw Claiborne standing at the table, lighting a cigarette from one of the candles. He walked to the veranda and listened until he was satisfied that they had gone; then went in and closed the door. He picked up the cloak and sword and restored the insignia to the silver box. The sword he examined with professional interest, running his hand over the embossed scabbard, then drawing the bright blade and trying its balance and weight.