“Let me talk to her,” cried Wylie, wrenching himself, with his collar loose and his coat hanging by one sleeve, from the hands that held him. “Look here, Miss Eirene, you must. You are not going to expose your sister to the risk of being searched by these fellows?”
“She can do as she likes. I won’t be searched, and I will give up nothing.”
“Smith, make your sister behave rationally. She will have all our blood on her head in a minute.” Maurice, held up by the two men who were searching him, made an effort to speak, but in vain, and Eirene turned her back on him. One of the brigands seized Zoe by the arm, and Wylie grew desperate.
“For the last time, turn out your pockets!” he said low and fiercely to Eirene. “If you don’t, I swear to you, on my word and honour, I’ll get my hands loosed and do it myself.”
Eirene was cowed. A muttered “Your honour!” passed her lips, but slowly and reluctantly she extracted from all the many pockets with which the Vindobona tailor had provided her such spoils as struck the brigands dumb with awe and astonishment, while Zoe looked on stupefied. Nearly all the jewellery Eirene had exhibited in the train seemed to be secreted about her person—pearls, rubies, emeralds, everything except the quaint enamelled plaques which she had said she prized most of all. There could be no doubt that before parting with her jewel-case she had removed all its most valuable contents.
“Is that all?” asked Wylie sternly, and she drew a bracelet from under her sleeve, and hurled it passionately on the heap at her feet.
“That is everything,” she said defiantly. “And I wish you and your friends joy of it. Of course I knew from the first that you were in league with them.”
“Now it is your turn,” said Wylie to Zoe, and she added to the heap a collection which filled the brigands with indignation, noticing as she did so that Eirene’s bracelet bore an eagle upon it—a design which seemed in some way familiar. A shabby purse moderately filled, two note-books, one very small, and the other large enough to require a special pocket for its accommodation, and a serviceable pencil-case—these were all that the robbers cared to appropriate of her possessions, but Maurice and Wylie were despoiled of everything their pockets contained.
CHAPTER VII.
A NIGHT’S LODGING.
For a minute or two the captives were left standing together while the brigands divided the spoil, each man stowing his share away in the bag slung knapsack-wise over his shoulder, and Wylie said hastily to Zoe, “You had better pick up what you can of the things they have left. Of course we shall be rescued to-morrow, but you will be more comfortable to-night.”