I told him exactly what I had seen.
“I’m a marked man,” was all his comment as I finished my story, and he spoke the words in a tone of despairing conviction. “A marked man, Tyrrell, my good friend,” he continued; “how can I thank you for having saved my life? Your presence of mind was wonderful, though I fear your services can only prolong my agony. I’m doomed, lost.”
“Nonsense, Lindheim! For Heaven’s sake don’t let your nerves go now when you want them most.”
He shook his head. “Nerves are of no avail against the powers here. You don’t know—be thankful you don’t. Furello is merely an instrument: one of many.”
“Anyhow,” I said cheerily, “I am going to stand by you and get you out of this business if it is as bad as you say. An Englishman doesn’t let cowardly murder go on before his eyes if he can help it.”
“It is splendidly kind of you, Tyrrell; but you had better leave me to my fate. If you interfere you will only share it.”
I laughed. “Not I.”
“You don’t know Rallenstein.”
“Don’t I?”
He gave an apprehensive glance behind. “It is hardly worth while,” he said, with an attempt at a laugh, “but we may as well be careful, as we are probably being watched.”