"If he won't," said I, "and you still wish it, you may do what you like."
Denny sheered off to the kitchen, with an air that did not seek to conceal his opinion of my foolish tender-heartedness. Again I was alone with the boy.
"My friend is right," said I, gravely. "You are not fit for the trade. How came you to be in it?"
My question brought a new look, as the boy's hands dropped from his face.
"How came you," said I, "who ought to restrain these rascals, to be at their head? How came you, who ought to shun the society of men like Constantine Stefanopoulos and his tool Vlacho, to be working with them?"
I got no answer; only a frightened look appealed to me in the white glare of Hogvardt's lantern. I came a step nearer, and leaned forward to ask my next question:
"Who are you? What's your name?"
"My name—my name?" stammered the prisoner. "I won't tell my name."
"You'll tell me nothing? You heard what I promised my friend?"
"Yes, I heard," said the lad, with a face utterly pale, but with eyes that were again set in fierce determination. I laughed a low laugh.