All this time, though he had laughed now and again and never ceased to smile a bold, amused smile, Westerham's quick brain was taking in every word and watching for some means of deliverance. He saw that he was in an extremely tight corner, but he did not doubt his ability to find a way out.
The two men who were acting as his warders suddenly seized his hands, and before he quite realised his position Westerham found himself handcuffed.
Still, however, he made no resistance.
“Gentlemen,” he cried, raising his voice so that it rang through the room and dominated all who were gathered there, “gentlemen, a man is usually permitted to say something when he has been condemned to death. I make no quarrel with your decision. If I were in your place I should probably do the same myself by another man as you are doing by me.
“I don't wish to dispute your decision, much less do I wish to plead for mercy. Melun has denounced me for the simple reason that I have the misfortune to be a gentleman. Well, gentlemen have a habit of dying as such.
“I trust I shall be no exception to the rule, but still, before you carry out your kind intentions, I should like to say something to Melun.”
“Bring him to the table,” said Melun. He looked uneasily at Westerham and avoided the steadiness of his glance. He felt that the moment was an awkward one. It was unwise to allow Westerham to speak; on the other hand, it would have been folly to deny him the privilege.
“Well, what is it?” he demanded sharply as Westerham stepped up to the table and leant his manacled hands on it.
Westerham bent forward over the table as far as he could and looked Melun straight in the face.
“You will not strangle me,” he said in a very quiet voice, “because THEY ARE NOT WHERE THEY WERE.”