A man stood there.
He came out, moving very slowly as though partly stupefied. He wore evening dress under his overcoat, and had a long knife in his right hand.
Nobody spoke.
“So—I really was to die then, if I came here,” said the girl in a wondering way.
Sanang’s stealthy gaze rested on her, stole toward Cleves. He moistened his lips with his tongue. “You deliver me to this government agent?” he asked hoarsely.
“I deliver nobody by treachery. You may go, Sanang.”
He hesitated, a graceful, faultless, metropolitan figure in top-hat and evening attire. Then, as he started to move, Cleves covered him with his weapon.
“I can’t let that man go free!” cried Cleves angrily.
“Very well!” she retorted in a passionate voice—“then take him if you are able! Tokhta! Look out for yourself!”
Something swift as lightning struck the pistol from his grasp,—blinded him, half stunned him, set him reeling in a drenching blaze of light that blotted out all else.