"That's not my idea of wisdom," Trent grinned so cheerfully that Hentzi was vaguely disturbed.
"You are more foolish even than the others," Hentzi said, shaking his head. "Brave men, all three. For my part I would be reasonable. I would say, 'I have fought a good fight and the odds were against me. How much can I save from the wreck?' That is the way to talk, my lord."
Suddenly he took a book from his pocket, a book tied with string and sealed but not enveloped in paper. He handed it to the American.
"This is from a friend," he announced. "I bring danger on myself in giving it to you but I can rely on your silence, eh?"
"Certainly," Trent said carelessly and betrayed no interest in the gift. "At ten o'clock tonight? Is that it?"
"It is wise to acknowledge defeat," Hentzi said earnestly.
"We'll see when the time comes," Trent returned. "It's largely a matter of holding trumps my good Hentzi."
Anthony Trent tore the string from the book eagerly. In the middle, placed carefully in a space hollowed among the leaves were the bar keys which might, with luck, open the doors to safety. About them was wrapped a half sheet of scented, green note paper. On it was scrawled very faintly in pencil, "I have put it where you told me to."
"Thank God!" cried Anthony Trent.