Quality’s whole frame shook in a tempestuous ague of suspense.
Had they gone again? Was the blow to be averted at the eleventh hour? Were his hopes yet to find consummation?
Even as he asked the question, the answer came.
There was the sound of heavy footsteps along the passage.
Once more, Quality’s hunted glance flickered around the room, with the sharpened sense of the trapped quarry, seeking desperately for some channel of escape.
His eyes fell upon the papers lying on the table before him. He began to read them with dull interest. Who was this Hubert Quality whose harmlessness and integrity were vouched for in black and white! What of him?
Bereft of all sense of identity—calmly expectant—he watched the door burst open.
It seemed the final performance of an oft-rehearsed drama. Inside—they were actually inside at last; these oft-dreamed-of figures of his fears—stern-faced men, wearing the grey Prussian uniform.
Before him was the officer, seemingly magnified to unhuman stature, in long, belted coat and spiked helmet. His eyes, blue and polar, raked the room. His voice, sharp and metallic, gave the word of command. He was no man, but merely a vehicle of inexorable justice—a machine that has found its range.
Slowly, slowly, Quality arose to his feet. He stretched out his hands.