“The Germans on the leads ’ave busted into the garret! Breslau is up ’ere! Send along those American gunmen, or somebody what can shoot!”
He was a grey-haired Englishman, smooth shaven and grim; and, as he stood there at the head of the 382 further stairs, breathing heavily, awaiting aid from below, he said to Neeland coolly enough:
“You’d better go below, sir. We ’ad our orders to take this Breslau rat alive, but we can’t do it now, and there’s like to be a ’orrid mess ’ere directly.”
“Can we get through below?”
“You can,” said the man significantly, “but they’ll be detaining one o’ them ladies at the door.”
“Do you mean me?” said Ilse Dumont.
“Yes, ma’am, I do––”
She sprang toward the attic stairway, but the British agent whipped out a pistol and covered her.
“No,” he said grimly. “You’re wanted below. Go down!”
She came slowly back to where Neeland was standing.