“A thief,” I interposed, with a smile. “The government only asks you to prove that you are not.”
Slowly Buckhurst turned his eyes on the Countess; the faintest glimmer of white teeth showed for an instant between the gray lines that were his lips.
“So you brought this man here?” he said. “Oh, I am glad to know it.”
“Then you cannot be that same John Buckhurst 52 who stands in the tribune of the Château Rouge and promises all Paris to his chosen people,” I remarked, smiling.
“No,” he said, slowly, “I cannot be that man, nor can I—”
“Stop! Stand back from that table!” I cried.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, coolly.
“Madame,” said I, without taking my eyes from him, “in a community dedicated to peace, a revolver is an anachronism. So I think—if you move I will shoot you, Mr. Buckhurst!—so I think I had better take it, table-drawer and all—”
“Stop!” said Buckhurst.
“Oh no, I can’t stop now,” said I, cheerfully, “and if you attempt to upset that lamp you will make a sad mistake. Now walk to the door! Turn your back! Go slowly!—halt!”