The tall Englishman laughed. “Yes, damn you, we got twelve thousand out of you.”
Krantz stepped forward. “Let me congratulate you, gentlemen. It is not every one gets ahead of us so easily. But we do not forget. I would strongly advise you to go away immediately.” Again the Englishman laughed.
“Bah! What do we care for you now? We have crossed the frontier. We are on French soil. We snap our fingers at your little tin-pot Principality.”
Krantz smiled pleasantly. He spoke in his silky voice, rubbing his hands together. Again Hugh noticed that the little finger of the right was missing.
“We know all about you,” he purred. “We have your record in France, England, America. We don’t want you here. You had better get out.”
“What if I refuse?”
“Refuse! Well....” Krantz rubbed his hands still harder and continued in his cheerful, chirping way, “Listen....” With his lips he blew a shrill, peculiar whistle. From the shadow across the road half a dozen dark shapes detached themselves.
“After all,” said Krantz, “the frontier is very near, the other side of the street, to be precise. It would be easy to take you over there by force. Once we have you, ... there’s no saying what might happen.”
The Englishman made a grimace. He seemed to reflect. Finally he banged his hand on the table.
“You go to hell,” he said.