Armitage put out his hand and Claiborne took it in a vigorous clasp.
“You don’t know who I am or what I am; and I haven’t got time to tell you now. It’s a long story; and I have much to do, but I swear to you, Claiborne, that my hands are clean; that the game I am playing is no affair of my own, but a big thing that I have pledged myself to carry through. I want you to ride down there in the valley and keep Marhof quiet for a few hours; tell him I know more of what’s going on in Vienna than he does, and that if he will only sit in a rocking-chair and tell you fairy stories till morning, we can all be happy. Is it a bargain—or—must I still hang your head down the well till I get through?”
“Marhof may go to the devil! He’s a lot more mysterious than even you, Armitage. These fellows that brought me up here to kill me in the belief that I was you can not be friends of Marhof’s cause.”
“They are not; I assure you they are not! They are blackguards of the blackest dye.”
“I believe you, Armitage.”
“Thank you. Now your horse is at the door—run along like a good fellow.”
Armitage dived into his room, caught up a cartridge belt and reappeared buckling it on.
“Oscar!” he yelled, “bring in that coffee—with cups for two.”
He kicked off his boots and drew on light shoes and leggings.
“Light marching orders for the rough places. Confound that buckle.”