“No — no —” Leshkin cringed away, an awful horror dawned on his coarse features.
The Duke stepped round the little table, fixing the Kommissar with his brilliant eyes. Leshkin backed again quickly towards the window; he held his hands in terror before his face. “No, no, I will go back — I will destroy the extradition — ”
“I fear it is too late.” De Richleau took another step forward; Leshkin made a sudden movement, as if to rush him, but as the glass was raised he gave back quickly. Now he was standing between the open windows.
“Are you ready?”
A grim smile played round the corners of the Duke’s firm mouth.
“Shoot me,” said Leshkin. “Shoot me!”
De Richleau waved the Kommissar’s automatic gently up and down. “You would prefer to die?” he asked evenly.
“No... no... I am not ready to die... give me time.”
“So —” the Duke mocked him. “You still think that God will help you when man will not? I am surprised that a man like you should believe in these effete superstitions. What is death, after all, but a cessation of activity?”
Leshkin was out on the balcony now, his hands behind him on the low stone coping, sweat was pouring down his brutal face.