"And a Norse Viking," said I.
"Be careful," he said gravely.
"Of course. But they believe you are what you pretend to be, don't they?"
"Absolutely.... And how do you know I am not?" he inquired smilingly.
We exchanged gay but significant glances. He went on speaking:
"That's all there is to it," he said, "a bunch of dips trying it on each other and still held together by the 'cohesive power of plunder'—the Prussian hun, the Austrian hun, the unspeakable Turk, the bloody Bulgar, the besotted Bolshevik!—a fine mess, Michael!—and here, under your roof, are three who have long ago been mugged, and who are known to the police of civilization everywhere."
"They've got their nerve," said I angrily, "to come here and discuss their dirty schemes! I've a damned good mind to ask them for their rooms. I've got enough of them already, Smith. I'm hanged if I stand for this another day——"
His hand closed on my arm in a leisurely grip of steel, and I winced and looked up at him in surprise and protest.
"Don't—spoil—things," he said quietly. His level glance met mine with a metallic glint, and I saw in his features something terrible—a fleeting gleam like the far reflection of lightning across a thunder cloud.
"Smith!" I exclaimed.