Fred was undoubtedly perfectly willing to go without interviewing his anarchist, but the latter was apparently not of the same mind.
"Oh no," he sneered, "you cannot go yet. We must go up stairs and talk."
The door was opened, and the German led the way up the narrow staircase to the floor above. Fred followed, because he knew that there was nothing else for him to do, and he was led into a rear room that had one small window which looked out over the back yard toward a wooded hill.
"You wait here now," said his companion, curtly; and before Fred could object the door slammed, and he found himself locked in the room alone.
He was in a nice fix now, he thought to himself, as he stood in the middle of the room. That man was Renard, no doubt. And here was he, Fred, a prisoner at his mercy, and to make it worse, he was a reporter, hated almost as much by anarchists as the police. There was no possibility of his getting any help, no matter how long he was kept a prisoner, because no one knew where he was. For the past few days he had merely reported progress to the Gazette office by telephone, and the city editor, of course, had not the remotest idea where he was working. It was impossible to escape from the window, because his captors could plainly see him if he tried to jump or climb down, for he could hear their angry voices in the kitchen below. So, after considering all these things, he wisely adopted the only course left open to him—he decided to await developments. He sat down, and expected every moment to hear footsteps coming up the stairs; but no such sound greeted his ears, and the hours passed slowly by. After a while he got tired of this sort of thing, and started to make a closer examination of his prison. He presently found a hole in the wall, with a round piece of tin on it, that opened into the chimney. The hole was evidently intended for a stove-pipe, and as soon as he removed the tin covering Fred could hear the voices below very much more plainly than before, for the sound was carried up the chimney, and by placing his ear close to the aperture he could even understand most of the words that were spoken. He intercepted a portion of the conversation, which startled him greatly.
"Well," said one voice, "I guess he will have to be killed."
"I hate to do it," said the other.
"So do I; but we might as well."
"How shall we do it, then?"
"In the good old-fashioned way, I guess. I'll wring his neck."