IF Herriard had had for the moment any doubts as to Gastineau’s identity, the sneering smile, quiet and purposeful, would have set them at rest.
“At last, Mr. Geoffrey Herriard, we meet again; and finally,” the cold, incisive voice said; and Herriard knew that the crisis of his fate, possibly his last minute of life, had come. For as he spoke Gastineau drew his hand from the pocket of his ragged peasant’s coat, and the polished barrel of a revolver glinted in the sweep of sunlight that poured up the glade and struck the tower. The action was characteristic of the man, business-like, yet no more than just necessarily demonstrative. But it contained a significant suggestion that resistance was futile; it said plainly, no quarter.
“I am sorry,” Gastineau proceeded, as coolly as though he had come to discuss a professional matter, “to be obliged to interrupt your repose; but you will understand that when a man is more or less fighting for his life he cannot afford to be punctilious. I think, Herriard, you have a revolver in your pocket. Covered as you are by mine, its use is not apparent. Do me the favour to take it out and throw it over the parapet. It will obviate any preoccupation in our talk.”
He came to within a few feet of Herriard with his own revolver covering the other’s heart. Herriard, realizing his helplessness, took out his weapon and threw it over the embrasured wall. It fell noiselessly on the soft turf below.
“What do you want with me, Gastineau?” he said, in the dull voice of a man who sees no escape from his fate.
Gastineau drew back a few steps, and seated himself on the low parapet that protected the stairway. “A little conversation first of all,” he answered; banteringly it would have been but for the suggestion of a dark purpose behind the easy manner; “a few minutes’ talk, and then”—he made a deprecating gesture—“silence.”
The word was ominous and struck chill to Herriard’s heart. He had busied his mind in looking for a way of escape, but none presented itself. In the sickening sense of despair he could thank Heaven for the short-lived joy and love that had been his.
There was nothing he could say to any purpose: he felt that, and waited for Gastineau to continue.
“I dare say you were weak enough to imagine you had given me the slip,” the chilling, hateful voice resumed. “Certainly it is a far cry from Mayfair to the Schloss Rohnburg, but then the necessity of self-preservation cannot stop to take heed of time and space. It may astonish you that I have seen proper to take so much trouble.”
Looking at the evil, resolute face, Herriard could only wonder how he could have been fool enough to imagine that his enemy had abandoned the set purpose of his vindictiveness and self-interest to which every fibre of his proved character surely held him. The affair of the nocturnal intruder was no mystery now, if ever doubt on the matter should have been allowed to dwell with his knowledge of this man.